The Haunted Mansion Culmination
by Booster
Summary: For nearly a century, the Gracey Mansion has been dark and silent, subject only to superstition and fear. Now, a deceased man's final wishes will bring a skeptic, a ghost hunter and 999 happy haunts together. There's no turning back now!
1. Prologue

**(Alright! I have returned, it seems. Mayhaps I'll stick around longer this time. Who knows. Either way, I've been writing on and off for some time, and its high time I shared some of my work with the community again...Namely, my latest project, inspired by my favorite theme park attraction of all time!  
**

**Just to be safe, I do not own Disney's Haunted Mansion or any of its ghostly characters. There are, however, a few original characters that ARE mine and I shall note them as they come along.  
**

**Quick thanks are in order before I begin, considering a quite a few people helped me get this going. Firstly, big thanks to the gang at Ghostly Retreat, our resident Haunted Mansion roleplaying board. I drew a lot of inspiration from the many talented authors I have worked with, not to mention developing personas for many of the manor's resident spectors. It was a blast writing with y'all! This is, I hope, a little tribute to that.**

**Secondly, thanks to Aquarian Wolf in particular for allowing me to use one of her characters in my story...Who, you ask? Well, that shall come into play in a later chapter. For now, that's a secret known only to AW and I. Her work was another huge inspiration for this story, and I must give her extra props for that. Kudos, AW!**

**And last but not least, my thanks to my writing group, who always get to read my stories first and always give me great feedback. If you're reading this on here, rather than our usual haunt - pun intended - I only have one thing to ask: why? *laughs* Naw. I owe you all alot.**

**Now...That aside, I shall let our tale begin properly. Enjoy! And Happy Halloween...)  
**

_Have you ever seen a haunted house?_

_You know the kind I mean. That old dark house that's usually at the end of a dimly lit street. The owners haven't been seen for years, no one really knows why. The windows are broken and boarded, and the shutters hang loose on their hinges. The trees have grown wild, their branches brush against the side of the weathering house, making strange noises in the night. There's a high vine-covered fence around the property. Is it there to keep somebody out, or is it there to keep some_thing_ inside?_

_It's a house people avoid walking past at night. Strange sounds come from within the walls. And it's said that eerie lights have been seen both in the attic windows, and in the graveyard at the side of the house._

_Our story revolves around this mysterious mansion._

~Thurl Ravenscroft, "Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion"

**THE HAUNTED MANSION**

**-CULMINATION-  
**

**Halloween Night, 1915**

Margaret Irvine was immensely pleased with the way things were turning out. The guests had been pouring in since sunset, at first merely a small trickle of the rich and affluent, dressed in their finest Autumn attire, but soon expanding to a number that encompassed most of the New Orleans elite. They were all taking to the evening's festivities with relish, laughing and socializing as they bobbed for apples, drank the rich wine, displayed their costumes and chatted about the excellence of the Halloween party…And the graciousness of their hostess. It only served to bolster Margaret's ego, and she couldn't be happier. It only proved her reputation was stronger than any superstition.

Even in the crowded ballroom, amidst the finely dressed revelers and the waltzing couples, she stood out; a dimpled woman, carrying her somewhat-stocky girth with an air of glowing importance, her bright orange hair tied up on her head in a tight bun. She stopped to politely receive each and every compliment from the socially well-off she met on the ballroom floor, and she felt a little more pride and self-importance with each. Her cheeks, already rosy from a few good drinks, were constantly raised in an amused smile, and she giggled infectiously.

Climbing the social ladder was her goal, and this party – part All Hallows ball, part birthday festivities (her being the blushing birthday girl) – would cement her place in New Orleans culture for good. It had been shaky for a time, with a few whispered remarks not only about her background, but about the comfortable antebellum home she now hosted her party in. There were rumors, of course, but she was quick to dismiss them to anyone who asked her directly. After all, one had to be quick on the uptake and not afraid to do a few illicit things in order to reach the position she held.

"Good evening, Ms. Irvine," greeted a mustached man wearing an elegant Mardi Gras mask. She was just about to pass him on the way to the dining table, her eyes set on the impressive birthday cake that the cooks had just set out. Undaunted by this interruption, she smiled and nodded to the man.

"And to you, Doctor Wells," she replied, smirking as she offered her hand. Doctor Wells politely kissed the proffered and bowed politely. She giggled. Here was one of the few people she genuinely knew, and possibly even liked.

"I'm sure you've heard as much from the other guests," he said, nodding to the general crowd, "but I simply must praise your fine All Hallows festivities, and wish you a happy birthday."

Margaret's smile was starting to hurt a little, but she gave the doctor a genuine one. "Thank you. I'm pleased you could attend. I did not expect such a grand turnout, to be honest!"

"Your reputation precedes you, madam." Doctor Wells grinned. "The decorations are fantastic. I don't suppose you did these all by yourself, did you?"

"Oh I had help, of course. Yale did the majority of the pumpkin carving. He's such a talented young man, Yale."

"Indeed. Where is your nephew, by the way?"

For once, the woman frowned. "I don't rightly know. He's always been fond of Halloween…To be honest," – and she leaned in close to whisper to the doctor – "he's still been acting a bit funny. I had hoped you could talk some sense into him, like you did before."

Doctor Wells wrinkled his brow as he listened. "Is he still claiming to see things? Talk to apparitions and whatnot?"

Margaret nodded, the bun on her head bobbing slightly. "It's troubling. He's been very subdued, staring off wistfully and sighing at times. You'd think he was having amorous feelings for some girl, but I haven't seen him even try to meet any of the available debutantes. All this talk of spooks and goblins made him jumpy even before my dear sister sent him to me, and now he says he can't sleep well anymore."

Oddly, the doctor smiled. "And you're not worried about spooks and goblins, madam? Your home does have quite the reputable background, and I-"

Margaret cut him off with a laugh, and her eyes seemed to flash as she did so. Finally, she said, "Doctor, I'm a serious woman. You know I wouldn't have bought this if I believed in such superstitious prattle!"

"I'm just saying, madam, it's not exactly wise to provoke spirits…Especially tonight." He was still smiling, but in a sort of teasing way.

A dangerous look crossed the lady's face for the briefest of instants. Then she was grinning. "Forgive me for saying this, Doctor, but you're from up north, aren't you? We're different here in the south. No fictitious phantoms are going to spoil the fun tonight. In fact, I'd like to see them try!"

***

Elsewhere in the house, a fluttering of feathers stirred the shadows.

"Caw! A premonition! Caw! Madame! Madame! Up and at 'em!"

"I've heard, Edgar. You can stop your squawking."

"Caw! Sorry. What do you sense?"

"Ooo…It's that infuriating woman downstairs! Her party is breaking up my concentration! How can I think with all that noise?"

"Madame! Caw! What did she say?"

"Oh ho ho…She's asking for it, she is. I wonder if…"

_Rumble._

"Caw! A sign! An order!"

"_Will you stop that infernal jabbering!?"_

"Erk. Sorry…It's sort of my thing…"

"Hmph. Of all the silly…Wait. Yes…Oh dear."

"Madame?"

"…No, it must be done. I've got my orders, you know….Even so…Never mind. Edgar, you might want to stand back. This could get ugly."

"Caw…Oh dear."

"Alright then…How did that incantation go? Ah yes:

_Horntoads and lizards,_

_Fiddle and strum,_

_Please answer the role_

_By beating the drum._

_Goblins and ghoulies,_

_Old friends and new,_

_Blow on a horn_

_So we'll know that it's you._

_***_

A single candle lit the cluttered darkness that was the attic. Two figures sat together in the small, sputtering sphere of illumination.

"Please Yale. It's the only way."

"But Emily…"

Yale Evens stared, his face paling in sadness, into the eyes of the girl he loved. She stared pleading back.

"It must be done," she said, and he voice was tinged with regret. "They're planning something tonight, and there's nothing I can do to stop them. I don't want to see you hurt."

"Why?" Yale nearly cried in response, and it took all his willpower to keep from standing and throwing his arms out in anger. "Why would they do something like this? How do you know this is going to happen?"

The girl sighed. "I've heard them. They're tired of your aunt, and they've been murmuring about taking action tonight, while the veil is thin. You know how _he_ feels about the mansion. I'm powerless."

The young man growled, and then the growl became a barely-concealed sob. "It's not fair…"

"It never was. Even when we first met, Yale, you knew we could never be together."

He looked up at her again, up into her beautiful face that spoke volumes, and his heart faltered.

"But Emily, I love you."

Her hand brushed his cheek, and he suppressed a shudder. She looked deep into his eyes, and he felt like she was peering deep into his soul. The tracks of tears stained her perfect face.

"I know, Yale. And you know I'll always care about you…But my heart still belongs to another, and I can't ignore that. I'm sorry. You…You need to move on."

They were so close, closer than they had ever been in the time Yale had known her, and yet they were about to be broken apart. He should have known better than to fall for her, yet he couldn't help himself.

He tried in vain. "Can't we…?"

"No," she said simply, shaking her head. "There's no stopping what will happen. And you know I can't go with you…But you must hurry! Time is slipping away, and you have your whole life ahead of you!"

Yale wanted to weep. He was surprised when, as he stared dejectedly at his feet, waves of grief hitting him, something made of paper was pressed into his hand.

"At least take this," offered Emily. "It's your right, and if things transpire as I think they will, you'll need it. Take it, and think of me."

Stunned, the man was about to speak again, to give some sort of fond farewell, when a breeze passed through the room. The candlelight flickered violently, and the shadows that moved across the walls seemed more unnatural than they should be. Yale nearly jumped as, just to his right, a hatbox tumbled from a shelf and hit the floor with a soft thud, the lid bouncing off to reveal the contents of the box.

Yale did not like what he saw. The thing in the box grinned at him.

Thankfully, the candle blew out, and he felt a gentle push. "It's starting!" he heard Emily whisper in fear. "Quick! Run! Keep going and don't turn back!"

Though he regretted it, he stumbled forward through the dark, fear spurring him on.

***

Things were beginning to quiet in the ballroom as the guests began gathering at the long dining table. Some of the luckier guests found seats, but there were too many people and too few chairs. Margaret made note that she should have put more effort into the seating arrangements. She now sat at the head of the table, the glowing birthday lady matching the candles on the sweet, appetizing cake before her. She stared at it hungrily. How many pieces could she eat while still seeming proper? Three? Four? Pity that she couldn't simply devour the whole thing.

A ringing, someone tapping a wine glass with a fork, ended the subdued conversation at the table. Doctor Wells stood, smiling to everyone and nodding curtly to Margaret.

"If I may have your attention please, everyone," he stated. "Thank you…Tonight, as you know, is a double occasion. I hope everyone has been enjoying the festivities as much as I have, and I wouldn't doubt that the best ghost stories are being saved for after dessert. This house seems to perfect place to speak of spirits, wouldn't you say?"

Margaret felt a small twinge of annoyance that the doctor would bring up the topic of ghosts again, but the majority of the gathering simply chuckled in good nature. Doctor Wells went on. "We are also here, of course, to celebrate the birthday of our charming hostess, who had the uncanny fortune of being born tonight, of all nights." He raised his glass to her. "And so I'd like to be the first to propose a toast…To our dear Ms. Irvine. Many happy returns on the date of your birth!"

"Here here!" came the response, followed by the clinking of glasses. Margaret smiled at the masked man, thankful for his not lingering on the subject and appreciative of his words.

"Well then!" She rubbed her hands together eagerly and looked about at all the warm faces. "This cake isn't going to eat itself! I'll blow out the candles once I get a song!"

The guests began warming up, and received their key from the organist. The ballroom has a grand old pipe organ, left over from the mansion's previous owners. It was a little dusty and still needed tuning, but the sound it made was impressive. She'd hired and organist from the local church specifically for the occasion, and as he launched into the tune, everyone else joined in:

_For she's a jolly good fellow,_

_For she's a jolly good fellow,_

_For she's a jolly good felllllllooooooow,_

_Which nobody can deny!_

Grinning hugely, Margaret knew her triumph was nigh. She briefly wondered where Yale was, for she didn't see him clustered among the guests. But she shrugged it aside as she made a silent wish, a wish to forever hold her status as the most popular lady in New Orleans. Then she leaned forward grandly, puckered up, and blew out the candles.

The lights blew out with it, and the room was plunged into darkness.

***

The front door burst open with a crash as Yale dashed out into the night air, breathing hard and only kept going by adrenaline. He sprinted down the front walk in seconds flat, dodging the numerous parked buggies of the guests. He had almost cleared the front gate when two things made him pause: the sudden eerie darkness as the lamp posts on the grounds went dark, and the horrid noise behind him.

He whirled around instinctual, looking back to see the mansion silhouetted in the moonlight. The lights that had been burning in most of the windows were gone, and the dark edifice of the house looked sinister, like a looming shade. The sounds that emanated now from the building could not be natural. There were screams and shrieks and wails, both human and inhuman, amplified hideously in the still night. He looked on in horror as a subtle shift in the light came over the mansion. A cloud passed over the moon.

Suddenly, a flash not unlike lightning nearly blinded Yale, and he shielded his face with his arm. When he looked again, rapid flashes of bright white light were bursting from all the mansion's windows in a haphazard fashion, and the sounds had become twice as frantic. His eyes were drawn to the mansion's belvedere, the top of which bore the weathervane of a clipper ship. It spun crazily despite the lack of wind, and little orbs of blue electricity danced over its surface like St. Elmo's fire.

That was all he could take. The spell broken, Yale nearly stumbled in his haste to turn around and flee. The hellish sounds were growing louder by the second, and he covered his ears and screamed in terror as he ran to the gate. He still felt the strip of paper Emily had given clutched in his right hand, and he gripped it tightly as he charged ahead blindly.

The moment he passed the wrought iron gate and left the grounds, the noises ceased. In their place, a soft, barely audible tune drifted up from the mansion; a sort of sad, mournful dirge that shook Yale more than the frightening keening he had just heard. He kept running. He would not stop. He would never return to the mansion as long as he lived.

It began to rain.


	2. Chapter I

---

**Chapter I**

---

If there was one thing Stanley hated about funerals, it was that he hated to dress up for them. His collar was killing him, and he knew it.

There were actually _several_ things Stanley detested about funerals, but if he had to name one, it would be the suit. No doubt. The place he had rented it from had starched this thing way too much, and it felt like walking around in a cardboard box. He could barely move, let alone stand in the hot August sun and feel comfortable. He was sweltering. Would the suffering never cease?

Still, he felt he needed to be as respectful as he could. He owed that much to the old man. He'd been Stanley's favorite uncle as a child, even if he was a great uncle. He'd been such a spry fellow too, always full of energy and humor, even as he got on in years. They'd lost touch as Stanley had grown up, yet he was impressed that his uncle had reached such a ripe old age before passing on.

Stanley wasn't grieving like some people were, but he still felt a bit of a tug to his heartstrings. He would miss the old man.

One reason this whole affair seemed off to Stanley was that this wasn't quite what his uncle had requested. He'd once told Stanley that he thought being buried at sea would be entertaining, but apparently had either changed his mind in later years or had been badgered by relatives for a more traditional burial, with a coffin and a priest and all the boredom that one could expect. It was more appealing to be thrown into the ocean; Stanley had mused to himself, than to be put in a box and sent six feet under. He preferred being eaten by fish than by worms.

Shrugging to try and get those images out of his head, he wiped some sweat from his brow and watched as they slowly lowered the casket into the ground. "Sorry, Uncle Yale," he whispered. "I hope this is what you wanted." And he sighed.

He really did hate funerals.

***

The reception afterward wasn't much better. Stanley had always been a bit uncomfortable at family gatherings, being a sort of black sheep in comparison. The occasion only made it worse. Weepy relatives, some he barely even knew, would come up and talk to him, and he felt like he was nine-years-old again with all their comments: how much he'd gown, how they hadn't seen him since he was in diapers, how his blond hair had darkened slowly over the years. Weird things like that. It was like they didn't realize he was a twenty-five-year-old man who really wished he wasn't here.

There were a few people he recognized, and while some he did his best to avoid – for instance, by ducking behind the buffet table – others he actively spoke to in order to catch up. His cousin Valerie was there, still as pretty as ever, and he got into a decent conversation with her about the times he'd visited her up in New York when they were kids. He'd never admit to her he'd had a small crush on her when he was twelve, but it amused him when he thought about it. He also saw his parents, who had come down from Connecticut to pay their respects. As usual, his mother was critical and his father was jovial, so things still seemed to be going well there. They told him they planned on going to Walt Disney World in October, and he was welcome to come along. Stanley doubted he could afford such a venture, but he told then he'd see what he could do.

But the most interesting encounter of the day was when he was getting some refreshments at the punch bowel. He happened to glance to his left as he was taking a sip and noticed an out-of-place shape among the black suits and veils of the gathering. It was a baseball cap, one that bore a picture of a grinning gargoyle on the back of it and the initials "GG & G" just below that. The person under the hat had bright red hair, and he wore an equally out-of-place blue Hawaiian shirt, with flowers and everything. Top that off with khaki shorts and a pair of flip flops, and even from behind Stanley was pretty sure he knew who it was.

Bemused, Stanley made his way through the group toward the man in question and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Martin?" he asked. "Is that you?"

The man addressed spun around quickly, revealing a youngish face and bright blue eyes behind a pair of geeky-looking glasses. Martin blinked for a moment, and then grinned. "Stan! Hey! Good to see you, cuz!" He enthusiastically took Stanley's hand and shook it.

Stanley hadn't seen Martin since they had been teenagers, but there was no doubt it was him. Martin was one of the most eccentric people he knew. He wasn't the sort to simply follow the beat of his own drum; he had to be the drummer and pound rhythms so sporadic that Gene Krupa would have been confused. He had an uncanny bit of charisma about him because of this, but he didn't always have the best sense of things, as evidenced by his choice of clothing on this occasion. Stanley had never understood Martin.

"You too," replied Stanley, his hand still being shook with such vigor that he had no control over it. He was beginning to wonder if he should have come and said hello at all. "It's been awhile. How have you been?"

"Pretty good, really," Martin replied, and Stanley noticed that Martin was talking to him and yet glancing in various directions, as if he were looking for something. Before Stanley could ask, Martin added, "Say, you haven't seen Uncle Yale around, have you?"

Stanley gawped a little. "Uh…"

"Ah, I'm not surprised," Martin seemed to conclude. "He's probably invisible. Ghosts tend to do that."

"Aha…Yeah. Ghosts." Stanley had nearly forgotten Martin's most bizarre fascination with the supernatural. He himself didn't believe in such, but Stanley decided to humor his poor cousin. "What makes you so sure Uncle Yale is a ghost?"

Martin adjusted his glasses, and Stanley knew some farfetched explanation was coming. "Well, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Sometimes a ghost lingers for a little while in order to make sure everything is going OK. There's been quite a few cases where a spirit has been seen at his own funeral, and I was just thinking that might be the case with Uncle Yale. You know how much he liked spooky stuff, eh?"

Stanley nodded. Yale had also been Martin's favorite uncle, and they used to spend time together with him when they were kids. One of the reasons Martin was so fond of the old man was that Yale was a font of ghost stories and superstitions. Martin ate that stuff up, and Stanley…Well, Stanley liked to think he was the sensible one. It was entertaining, sure. But there were no such things as ghosts.

"So I had just thought," Martin went on, "that maybe Uncle Yale would humor us with an appearance from beyond the grave. It seems like something he would do. But I haven't seen anything yet. You might want to keep your eyes peeled."

"I'll try," Stanley lied.

Martin grinned, displaying his set of oddly shiny teeth. "Cool, cool. But hey! I haven't seen you while! What are you doing these days, Stan?"

Stanley shrugged. "Oh. Nothing interesting. I'm working as a construction manager now, mostly for highways and things like that. It's not much, but it works."

Martin wrinkled his nose a little and nodded. "Yeah. Don't know how you'd manage something like that. I couldn't do it…What's so funny?"

Stanley turned his chuckle into a cough. _Damn right you couldn't_, he thought. "It's nothing, Sorry. Some punch when down the wrong pipe." He cleared his throat and took a sip of said punch, which tasted more like flavored water than anything fruity. "Anyway, what were you saying?"

"I was just going to ask if you're still living around these parts." Martin smiled and continued looking around in hopes of seeing something, oblivious to the sour looks he was getting from the other people there.

"Yeah, I'm still here," answered Stanley. "Louisiana's where I'm staying. You couldn't make me leave for good if you tried." He paused for a moment, than thoughtfully added, "What about you, Martin?"

"Hmm? Me? Well, I'm all over the place these days. I'm a reporter now. I write articles for a magazine and a website."

Stanley allowed a smile. "That's great. Who do you write for?"

Martin smirked and turned his baseball cap around so the gargoyle and the initials could be seen. "_Ghoulish Ghosts & Graveyards_! You might have heard of them. They're the biggest website dedicated to the weird and macabre out there! I've been a field journalist for them for three years now, and I've never regretted it!"

How Martin could be so enthusiastic about something like that, Stanley couldn't understand. It was all hogwash, anyway, and some people just took it too seriously. Still, if Martin was happy about it, then why was that a problem? Why did it seem to badger his ego? Was it because he thought he was superior to Martin?

He was more down-to-earth. Martin's head was always in the clouds. Therein lay the rift.

All he could manage was a weak nod. "Good for you. Always nice to have a line of work you enjoy."

Martin chuckled. "You betcha. So anyway, I really was hoping to see Uncle Yale before he passed on. I figured there would always be time for it, but he was getting on years."

"He turned a hundred a few months ago, if I recall," Stanley pointed out.

"Seriously? A hundred? Sheesh! Where have I been?" Martin's cheery nature seemed to dull a bit at that news, but not by much. "Had I known, I would have made the effort to get away from my writing and seen him."

Stanley patted Martin on the shoulder. "I know. I miss him too. We always regret not having taken that extra time, huh?"

For a third time, Martin's bespectacled gaze swept the reception space. "He can't be all gone," he whispered, and then a sly grin appeared on his face. "Not yet, at least. I know Uncle Yale. He wouldn't have left us without some sort of surprise."

Stanley, for the sake of Martin's feelings, didn't try to debunk him. After all, they were cousins and, to a degree, friends. But he hadn't seen Martin since he was seventeen, and his interests had changed.

Thankfully, the moment was interrupted by a woman who stepped up to them, with dark hair and a serious expression. "Mr. Vine? Mr. Ralkson?"

The cousins both turned to her. "That's us," Martin chimed. "What can we do for you, miss?"

The woman, who wore an outfit more befitting a business meeting than a funeral, leaned in close and spoke in hushed tones. "I'm Linda, Mr. Evens lawyer. I'm sorry for you loss."

A nod in response.

"I just wanted to inform you," she went on, "that your great uncle has included you both in his will, and the reading will take place soon after the reception. You'll both need to stay afterward. He requested that this all be kept private, so not everyone should know about it. So I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourselves."

"No problem," said Stanley, and Martin gave a small thumbs up in response, though his expression had paled a little. With that said, Linda moved away.

"I told you," Martin whispered, and he chuckled, but he didn't seem terribly pleased. In fact, neither did Stanley. And he couldn't quite place why.

***

The reading took place at Uncle Yale's home, a nice house that was somewhat off the beaten track. It stood on the edge of a marsh, and the fireflies were just beginning to stir on the edge of the property as those entitled to the will arrived. By the time the reception had cleared, the afternoon had been waning toward evening, and now twilight was settling over the property. Martin kept looking in the direction of the dark marsh and absently scratching at a bit of chin stubble he had. Stanley, for his part, just wanted to get the whole thing over with so he could go home and take his horrible suit off.

Quite a fair amount of the family was there, including his parents, his grandparents on his mother's side (his father's parents were both deceased), Uncle Terry, Aunt Jean, and the cousins: himself, Valerie and Martin. There was also an older, hawkeyed fellow who said he was a close friend of Yale's. Compared to everyone, family and friends, who had been at the reception though, this was small.

They had all gathered in the well-furnished sitting room, a high window in the back offering a view of the landscape outside. Linda, who still radiated an aura of rather soulless business and seriousness, was reading off the names of everyone who would be included in the will, making sure all were in attendance. Stanley couldn't help but notice Martin was still casting his eyes about hopefully, and it was a wonder to Stanley how someone like Martin could hold his own in the world and still be so governed by folktales.

"Good. I think everyone's present and accounted for," stated Linda, and she looked over the top of her glasses at everyone as if she were sizing them up. Then she produced a sealed envelope. "I had specific instructions not to look at this until everyone mentioned was able to hear it, so I do not know what this contains."

"Don't must people have video wills these days?" Valerie inquired, and she glanced at Stanley. He shrugged.

The older, hawkeyed man grunted. "Yale was an old fashioned kinda guy. He'd prefer it like this."

Linda slit the envelope neatly open with a long, glossy nail and produced the will, which she read aloud. "Alright then…To my survivors. Sorry to leave you all in such a state, but it's inevitable that I go at some point. One doesn't live to be my age and not expect the creek to rise on them. So it is only thoughtful that, before I go, I leave my earthly possessions to the few people in this world I actually liked."

That produced a chuckled from the collective. Yale had always been a bit reclusive, hence why he probably would have lamented at his own funeral for all the busybodies that showed up. Stanley had always liked that about him.

The reading went fairly quickly and with each survivor receiving something significant from Uncle Yale. Stanley's parents were given the old grand piano ("I know how much Ruth loves to play music.") plus a fair amount of cash. The grandparents received all of his mint dishware and silverware, including the fine china ("This is antique stuff, so be careful with it!"). Uncle Terry and Aunt Jean got his vintage 1940's Royce ("Be REALLY careful with that one, alright you two? I've kept it in good shape all these years."), and Valerie was bestowed five acres of open land in Missouri ("It's high time you headed back south, young lady!"). The hawkeyed man, who's name was learned as Abner, got the house they were all sitting in ("because you were always complaining about how nice my house was compared to yours, you can keep the damn thing.").

It soon came to Martin. Linda looked up at him, blinked as her expression remained coolly neutral, and then returned to the will. Martin sat back on the couch he was sharing with his cousins and smiled.

"To Martin," the lawyer read, and it was strange to Stanley hearing words that Uncle Yale would have said coming from another person's mouth. "You've always been a fun guy. I must say, I admire your optimism and sense of character. You know what you want in life, and you're not worried what other people think. I may be totally off the mark here, but that's always what I've thought of you. I know how much you enjoy reading. And I hope that, by the time you hear this, you're still into all those ooky-spooky tales. I hereby leave you with my entire collection of books, including all of the ghost stories I've compiled over the years. Have fun with them."

Stanley glanced across at Martin. He looked like Christmas had come early. It didn't seem like much, but to Martin, it must have been huge. He kept opening his mouth and closing it, trying to find words that weren't there. Finally he grinned and sat back, pulling his baseball cap low over his eyes, probably to hide the waterworks that were starting.

"Lastly, to Stanley," Linda pressed on, and Stanley watched the lawyer with interest. What could Uncle Yale possibly want to give him, when it seemed all the most treasured possessions of his deceased great uncle were had already been given to everyone else.

"Compared to a lot of people I know, you're as sensible as they come. That's a rarity in my book, and you should guard it well. However, don't be afraid to lighten up a little. You always struck me as being a bit serious, and I hope you temper your will with some positivism. It's because of your nature that I have something special in mind for you."

Pausing, Linda's eyes scanned the will, and then she produced a second envelope, which was addressed to him in Uncle Yale's handwriting.

Stanley stood, a little awkwardly, and crossed the room to take the envelope. He stared at it for a moment, then with deliberate slowness opened it and studied the contents.

It contained to folded strips of paper. One was dusty and yellowing with age, and Stanley thought it might fall apart in his hands. He put it back in and instead drew the other, folded slip of paper. Setting the envelope down on a coffee table, he unfolded the letter. It read:

_I, Yale Evens, hereby bestow upon my great nephew, Stanley Vine_

_legal ownership of the Gracey Family Estate in New Orleans, including_

_on the property the Gracey mansion, the mansion grounds, and the_

_family cemetery. Hence forthwith, he will be considered master of_

_this estate and disposed to all the legal rights of any previous_

_owners, including the perpetual waiver of taxes to the estate._

Below this was a small footnote, apparently intended for him:

_Keep your head, and keep a stiff upper lip!_

_~Uncle Yale_


	3. Chapter II

---

**Chapter II**

**---**

A mansion. Of all things, his uncle had left him a mansion. What were the odds of that?

Just confirm what he had read, Stanley had carefully looked at the aged paper that come with the letter from Yale. It was, as he had begun to suspect, an aged title deed to the land. And according to its original issue to the owner, it was a revised document. The property had originally been purchased in 1816.

Most, if not all of the others gathered, had a hard time disguising their shock. Especially Martin. He almost toppled from his position on the couch when he'd heard the name of the place Stanley was inheriting. Whatever significance the place held for his cousin, it was lost on him. It was to their credit no one said anything, or even leapt up to rip the deed from his grasp, for that matter. And he held it very carefully too, because he was afraid it would crumble to dust in a matter of moments.

The reading ended well enough, though, even thought the rest of those gathered seemed a little on edge around him. It bothered Stanley. There was a lot to take in, and he was feeling increasingly tired and a little irate. And that darn suit collar was still digging into his neck.

He was quick, then, to say goodbye to everyone and step out onto the front porch. He hadn't realized how hot it had felt inside until he was back out in the marshy air. Wiping a bit of sweat from his brow, he exhaled sharply and adjusted the ever-irritating collar, listening to the chorus of frogs and other nocturnal creatures chirring and thrumming in the night. It was soothing.

Sighing again, Stanley began trudging down toward his car, pausing on the front drive to look back up at the house. There were a lot of muddled thoughts going through his head right now, but they cleared for just a moment as he stood there, just staring back at his great uncle's last residence. The fact that Yale was truly gone was beginning to settle on Stanley. A bunch of memories came flooding back, of when he was younger and not so caught up in his own affairs. He regretted not taking the time get to know the old man a little better, to have visited him at least a few times before he'd passed on. Now it was too late, and he'd been given something huge by someone he hadn't spoken to in years.

Why?

It then struck him how odd his uncle's parting gift him was; not the fact he'd been given an entire estate that was apparently tax-free (he'd read the letter a second time just to be sure he was seeing what he was seeing, and picked that detail up), but the final, little message. It sounded like encouragement, but for what? Maybe he meant dealing with his death, but Stanley hadn't gotten that impression.

Martin had been right, to a degree. Uncle Yale was full of surprises.

Shaking his head, Stanley turned back toward the dark outline of his car. He'd go home and sleep on it, and maybe figure out what to do with his new property in the morning.

"Hey Stan! Wait up!"

Stanley groaned, turning around to see Martin jogging down the driveway toward him. He looked like an enthusiastic little kid, the way he bobbed as he ran.

"Look Martin, I'm not in the mood right now," he said, and was about to turn back to the car when he caught the look on Martin's face. It was sheer awe.

"Stan!" he gasped. "Hold up a sec! Do you realize what a lucky son of a gun you are?"

Stanley, patience wearing thin, bobbed his head in response. "Yeah. I know. You're just bringing up what everyone was thinking back there. I respect your audacity, Martin, but really-"

"It's more than that!" Martin laughed as he clapped both hands on Stanley's shoulders. "I didn't want to say anything in there, but what you have on your hands could be a paranormal goldmine!"

That had caught him a little off guard. "Huh?" He shrugged Martin's hands off.

Martin shook his head. "Seriously, you've never heard of the Gracey mansion? Uncle Yale used to tell me stories about that place, back when-"

Now it was Stanley's turn to grab Martin's shoulders. "Hold on. Hold on….You've heard of the place? Uncle Yale told you about it?"

"Yeah! Why wouldn't I?" The bespectacled man looked mildly surprised. "It's a local hot-spot for those in my line of work! Uncle Yale told us stories about the place, remember? Back when we were kids? He said he used to _live there_!" Martin stepped back and gave Stanley a quizzical look. "Come on, you gotta remember those!"

The older of the two cousins shook his head. "I can't say I do, Martin," he replied, feeling a little pang of guilt. Why hadn't he tried harder to cherish those memories?

Martin was still unfazed. "Huh. That's weird. Anyway, he told me all sorts of things about that place. He said that while he was there, all sorts of strange stuff happened. Eerie kinda stuff."

Stanley had a sinking feeling. "Are you saying you think this place is _haunted?_"

In response, Martin grinned hugely. "That's what I'm hoping for. I mean, I've heard Yale's stories about it. And I know some people in the area that have seen some supernatural phenomena around the place, but I've never been to it myself. It's private property, after all. And I never knew Uncle Yale owned the place!"

A silence hung between them.

"Martin, I know that you're hinting at, but it's no good."

Martin's face fell. "Why not? You obviously got this place, and you're not doing anything with it yet. I've been dying (no pun intended) to get a look at the Gracey mansion for ages! Maybe I can find out if the stories are true or not!"

Stanley massaged the bridge of his nose. "They're just stories! Martin, I've been trying to spare your feelings, but you know I don't believe in ghosts! And besides, this is all too new, and I still don't know what I'm doing with the place yet!"

A frog croaked loudly in the distance while the two cousins stared at each other. Stanley was beginning to feel bad about his outburst. But Martin was being illogical. Ghosts simply did not exist.

Finally, Martin took the glasses off of his face and polished them on his shirt, his expression contemplating. "What if," he began, "we made some sort of deal?"

"A deal?" Stanley was tired, slightly irate, and wanted to go home. But he figured he owed Martin a chance to make an offer. Sighing, he folded his arms and leaned back against his car. "I'm listening."

The younger man brightened a little. "Yeah. I imagine you'll want to go and check this place out at some point for yourself, right? Well, here's what I'm thinking: you take me to scope the place with you, and I'll do all the research and provide transportation. You know, dig up some history, find out as much as I can about the mansion."

"I can drive there myself," Stanley countered, gesturing to his Honda.

"Yeah, but it'll save gas, right? And I'll pay for it." Martin smiled.

Stanley felt the corners of his mouth arch a little. "Tempting…And this information you're going to dig up. Will it be feasible?"

Martin puffed out his chest a little. "Sure. As much as I can find. I'll try asking around-"

"Please don't use your 'usual haunts,' OK?"

Martin chuckled. "Fine, Mr. Skeptic. Most of the people I know are history buffs anyway, but I'll expand my sources." He stuck out a hand. "Well cuz, what do you say? Sound fair enough? It'll be like old times, you and I."

Stanley stared at the hand got a moment, thinking. Martin did make a good offer. It would give him a little less to think about, having him as a quasi (if somewhat occult-obsessed) tour guide. And it was a bit of a drive to New Orleans, so it would be easier to carpool. Then maybe he could get an idea what his uncle was thinking, giving him a manor house. Quite a lot to think about, to be sure. But maybe…

He shook Martin's hand. "Sure. It's a deal."

"Great!" Martin exclaimed, returning the shake with vigor. "You won't regret it, Stan! I promise! When do you wanna head down there?"

"Next free weekend I have," Stanley replied, "I'll let you know. Then we can arrange things."

Martin nodded, a huge grin on his face, "Right! Just let me know when!"

---

"When" ended up being the following weekend. They were usually free anyway, but there was always the occasional call that came in for work during this time. After checking in with Martin, Stanley had called in a favor and had taken the weekend completely off, leaving one of his fellows on call should anything come up.

There were perks to being a manager, even in the service of state highways.

Stanley spent the week after the funeral deep in thought. He lived alone, so he had lots of time to ponder the mansion. He had read the deed over and over again, along with his uncle's final statement, almost out of habit. The surreal ness of the whole affair had dulled, but he still could not grasp it entirely. Stanley was tempted to do research of his own into the place, but decided against it. Martin was on the task anyway, and he didn't want to obsess over the mansion.

Yet his imagination lingered on the idea, and he found himself dwelling on the details in his mind. What would the place look like? Was it a ramshackle, weather-beaten old relic that would make Martin's ideal haunted house? As far as he knew, the place hadn't been owned and maintained since his great uncle had been a teenager. Sometime, when he slept, he dreamt of the mansion as a ghastly, dilapidated building, with rain beating against the rotting shutters and wind howling through gnarled trees. Always, an eerie light would be glowing from some distant attic window, yet when Stanley would wake, he could never remember the details. The house was always shadowy and insubstantial.

Friday morning rolled around, and right on time, so did Martin. Stanley was just finishing putting his bags by the front door when he heard the sputtering of an engine outside. Peering through his apartment window, he beheld (to his dismay) a worn, rattling VW van parked at the curb, painted in a faded shade of purple and sporting the same grinning gargoyle that Stanley had seen on Martin's cap emblazoned on the passenger side door. Martin was just climbing out, dressed much the same as he was at the funeral, save that he wore a different color shirt (still Hawaiian, but orange this time) and a different pair of shorts (still khaki).

Stanley stepped outside before Martin could knock, hesitating a bit at the door. They had half a state to cover before nightfall, and they were going in a hunk of junk. Just wonderful.

Martin waved to greet him as he stepped out into the clear, warm morning, lugging his bags behind him. "Hey Stan! Ready to go, eh?" Martin called. "Here, let me help you with those."

"Thanks," murmured Stanley, as his cousin jogged up and took his suitcase, then ran and opened the back of the van. All he really had was that and a sports bag with some essentials in it. Stanley liked to think he traveled light.

With as much bright energy as always, Martin whistled a tune as he slid the door to the van open and threw the bags in. Stanley caught a glimpse of the vehicle's inner contents, and marveled again at his cousin's bizarre hobbies.

"Martin."

"Yeah?" He turned back to look at Stanley, and then into the van. "Oh. All that?"

Stanley shook his head, a snort of laughter escaping him. "You're carrying a _library_ around with you?"

Martin grinned. "You could say that. These are the all the books that Uncle Yale left me. I haven't gotten around to storing them yet, so I figured I might as well bring them along for some light reading."

Stanley opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. It might just be easier to go along with Martin's logic for the trip, if they were going to get anywhere. He simply took the time lock up and prepared himself for a long drive. "I call shotgun," he said.

As he climbed in the front passenger seat, he also noted how old the interior of the van was. The dashboard and half of the gauges were covered in a grimy layer of dust, and it smelled vaguely musty inside. Stanley sat down carefully, hearing a rusty groan as the seat shifted a little. He had a slight feeling of dread by this point, at least hygiene-wise.

The van shuddered as Martin slammed the side door, and as he moved around to climb in the drivers seat, Stanley turned his head to peer into the mountain of books piled in the back of the vehicle. A lot of the books seemed fairly old and many with an encyclopedic note. From what he could see, most of the titles were dealing with the supernatural. Just beyond the haphazard pile was a large metal ice chest, with several objects stacked on top. They looked like complicated and ancient photo equipment.

"Martin," he asked, his curiosity piqued, as Martin climbed into the drivers seat. "What's with all that stuff back there? You do photography along with your articles?"

Martin shook his head. "Not really. No, that's the stuff I take with me when I'm on a haunted site. Mostly odds and ends, you know. Ghost-detecting gear. I've got all sorts of things, mystical and scientific, for tracking down spooks." He smiled proudly as he turned the key and the van revved. "I call it the Apparition Apparatus Kit. Catchy title, huh?"

Stanley, despite himself, could not hide a smirk at the downright silliness. "Martin," he said, patting the driver on the shoulder, "you never told me you drove the _Mystery Machine_."

Martin laughed as the engine sputtered to life and they pulled away from the curb.


	4. Chapter III

---

**Chapter III**

**---**

"So what did you end up finding out about the place?"

It was a question Stanley had been burning to ask since he'd first climbed into the van. He would have said something earlier, but he'd been forced to help Martin navigate the streets of the town. His cousin seemed to lack any real sense of direction, and so Stanley had been preoccupied getting them on course. Once they were on the highway, however, Martin proved that he was an apt driver, and they were now cruising smoothly through a clear August afternoon, heading in the direction of New Orleans.

Martin, staring adamantly at the road, glanced over at the passenger for a moment. "Huh? Oh yeah. Well, quite a bit, actually." He smiled, than turned his attention back to driving. "I dug around the web a little bit, and managed to piece together as much as known about the mansion."

"Good," Stanely replied. "What did you discover?"

Martin shrugged. "Where do you want me to start?"

Stanley rubbed his chin. How much had his goofy cousin found out that was actually factual? "Whatever seems relevant, I guess."

Martin smirked. "Heh. For starters, the place does have quite the history, like I've said. It seems pretty rife with all the signs of a good haunted house."

_Hardly_, Stanley thought to himself. Out loud, he said, "Yeah? Got a rich and gory background, this house?"

"Surprisingly, not so much," Martin replied. The light caught his glasses in such a way that it hid his eyes from view. It was a little eerie. "I've heard much worse stories centered on other haunted locations. No. It's more intriguing than anything else."

There was a long pause.

"Go on," Stanley urged, slightly astonished at his rather childlike interest.

Martin laughed suddenly. "Sorry. Just getting my thoughts together while I build some dramatic effect. At any rate, I don't know the whole story. Mostly records and things. The mansion was built in 1817 by a rich merchant and former U.S. Army colonel; guy by the name of Ron Stevens. Apparently, he got the land cheap because it was built on property directly adjacent to a cemetery."

Stanley snorted, trying to hide a chortle. "I'm not surprised."

Martin pressed on. "Anyway, the colonel lived there with his wife and his brother-in-law, George Gracey. They had a lot of wealth on hand, because the colonel was a pretty successful merchant captain and the Graceys had owned a cotton plantation prior to them living in the house. They sold the old property for a large sum and pooled their resources with Stevens to get a lot of affluence." He paused, as if thinking of what to say next. "Like I said, I'm not sure how accurate all this is, since there was not a huge amount of truly certifiable accounts or documentation about the estate's history."

Hearing this, Stanley compulsively patted the deed, which he kept in his shirt pocket, as if assuring himself it was still there. "Whatever you have to say, Martin, I'll listen. We can sort it out later when we get there."

Nodding, Martin agreed. "Good point. Now, like I was saying, there are some stories that colonel Stevens was actually a pirate. Other stories say he was a smuggler that worked closely with pirates. Either way, they agree he might have been involved in some illegal activity. Whether that's true or not, there was some really heavy stuff that went down later.

"Not long after the mansion's completion, George Gracey got married to a woman named Constance. The night after the wedding, he was murdered, supposedly by a jealous rival for this woman's affections."

"You sure it was murder?" Stanley asked. "How'd he die?"

"Someone stuck an axe in his head," Martin replied with a mock evil smirk.

Stanley whistled.

"And before you say anything," Martin stated (though Stanley really didn't have much intention of doing so), "this was actually the most accurate piece of evidence I've found of this period. It was big news, after all. There was an old newspaper clipping of the story, e-mailed to me by a friend in New Orleans when I told her about my research...She's been studying the mansion for years; got a lot of inside-information. We might want to go and talk to her at some point."

Stanley wasn't certain he wanted to meet any of Martin's friends, but if the information was on, then it might be worthwhile. He replied simply. "Sure, if she knows what she's doing."

"She sure does. She works in a curio shop."

"Impressive," Stanley offered. "But you were saying?"

Martin nodded. "Right. Anyway, from this point forward, what's known is pretty sketchy. They eventually found the guy who committed the murder, but he pleaded innocent all the way to his sentence. After that, more weird stuff happened: Colonel Stevens nearly went bankrupt, but somehow regained his fortunes. A few years later, Stevens' wife and daughter vanished without a trace, and the guy went nuts not too long after that. The house went over to Constance after the colonel died, but she sold it and left the state. No one knows why."

Stanley sighed. "Huh. More disappearances than death with this place, huh?"

"It gets better," Martin replied, and he suddenly swerved the van to the left to get into a barely-missed lane. When he was able to focus on the road again, he went on. "The next guy who owned the house was another Gracey. He was George's nephew, and he bought the place the moment he saw it. Real secretive guy, or so the stories say. He didn't socialize much. When he did, though, he had some real charming qualities about him."

"How long did he have the place before he got bumped off?" Stanley asked jokingly.

Martin shook his head. "Hmm…Six or seven years, maybe. He didn't die, though. At least, they never found him. He vanished too. Everyone assumed he died, but there was no evidence."

"Ah," Stanley said. "Anyone vanish with him?"

"His bride," Martin answered. "He apparently went out and met a nice girl. They courted for awhile, and were set to be married there at the mansion. But they both up and disappeared the day of the wedding."

Stanley nodded, smirking. "Seems to be bad luck with brides at this place, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Martin scratched at his chin-stubble with a free hand thoughtfully. "Classic signs of a good haunting, though. If that many unfortunate events occurred in one location, then it means something supernatural is pulling the strings."

Stanley shook his head. "Could just be coincidence."

Martin mirrored the head-shaking. "Skeptic," he muttered, but he smiled.

Not that Stanley cared what Martin thought. Ghosts didn't exist. Neither did haunted houses; just a bunch of old buildings where people let their imaginations get the better of them. He remembered watching one of those documentary shows that involved so-called "ghost hunters" trying to make contact with the other side, and they'd have cameras. They'd have what they called "proof" on tape by the end, but it was never anything truly refutable: the "ghost orb" looked like a mote of dust to Stanley, or the people would react to some scary crash or bang, but the camera never caught anything. It was all a hoax.

"Alright then, Mr. Know-It-All," said Stanley, "I get that a bunch of weird stuff happened. What did Uncle Yale tell you about the mansion?"

Martin didn't answer right away. He seemed to be engrossed in shifting the van's gears, which produced a coughing sputter from the engine. Just as Stanley was wondering if he'd struck a nerve of some sort, Martin spoke up.

"Honestly, he never talked much about it, or why he left when he was a teenager. He told me he lived there for a year or so, with his aunt. Uncle Yale seemed real guarded about that. I know the last time anyone occupied the house was in the early 1900's, and it hasn't been lived in since. Thing is, the land can't be touched by developers or the state, since its privately-owned property. So the mansion's just been sitting there, all these years, rife with supernatural activity.

"And you, cuz," finished Martin with aplomb, grinning, "are the new owner."

---

Things were uneventful for a while after the conversation. Stanley, with roadmap in hand, guided his cousin along the highways of the state. Around sunset they passed the city limits of New Orleans, at which point Martin gave Stanley a piece of scratch paper with handwritten directions. They stopped briefly at a gas station to fill up and grab some snacks before they set off again, turning into the older part of town. This was the New Orleans people thought of when they pictured it in their mind's eye, with its ornate buildings and lacy-iron grillwork. Stanley thought he could hear faint jazz music in the air every once and awhile, and there was something relaxing to the sound.

They passed along the Mississippi river as twilight took hold, and followed it to the edge of town. A single riverboat stood out on the water, lights glowing against the thickening darkness. Then they were turning, leaving the waterfront behind as the van turned onto an unpaved road that led into a thick copse of trees. In the headlights glow, Stanley was able to make out a hand-painted sign, half-hidden in the foliage that stated they were on Sedgwick Park Road.

The van bounced and rattled as it went, carrying its passengers through shadowy wilderness. Staring out the window, Stanley could just see the marsh-like landscape that was visible through the trees. Fireflies flitted through the air, glowing a green-yellow that flickered in and out. Stanley had to admit to himself there was something subtly eerie about it. Even with his rational mind, he could feel a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach as they drew nearer and nearer his inherited estate.

He glanced at Martin. The driver hadn't said anything for awhile, eyes fixed intently on the road. Stanley recognized the half-smirk Martin held on his face. Martin always got that expression when he was anticipating something. Probably eager to see some spooks or goblins.

Come to thing of it, thought Stanley…

"Hey Martin, what makes you so sure ghosts exist?"

Martin spared Stanley a quick, puzzled look. Then he smiled. "I've seen 'em. You can't deny what your own eyes tell you."

Stanley scoffed. "Then how come I've never seen them?"

"Two reasons, cuz. For one, you haven't been to a lot of haunted spots, have you? You can't expect to see ghosts anywhere. They congregate in specific places."

"Such as?"

Martin pondered this a moment. "Well, spirits can show up anywhere, with the right conditions. Anywhere has the potential to be haunted, but not everywhere is. My work's taken me all over the place, so I've seen plenty of spirits firsthand."

Stanley was unconvinced. "Where?"

"My last assignment, for instance," Martin replied. "I was up in a Nevada, checking out the ghost towns in the region. I eventually stumbled upon this dusty old boomtown called Thunder Mesa, sitting in the shadow of a rocky mountain called Big Thunder. Native American legend says that the mountain is sacred and that any who disturb it will be cursed. That explains why the mining operation went bust and the place was hit by a major earthquake in 1880 that swallowed people alive. I saw a lot of restless spirits there, especially when I poked into the mine shafts a bit-"

"You could be seeing things," interrupted Stanley. "Could have been trapped gasses or cave phenomena or something."

Martin frowned. "'Cave phenomena' doesn't usually talk back."

Stanley shook his head. Martin was touched in the head. Had to be.

Even so, the driver continued. "Then there was the time I was in California. Nice place. Lots of urban supernatural spots to investigate, too. The Whaley House in San Diego; the cruise ship _Queen Mary_ in Long Beach; the Hollywood Tower Hotel was the best, though. That was a real hot spot for ghosts. The hotel was struck by lightning in 1939, and there's been an odd paranormal rift, so to speak, in that spot." Martin paused, chuckling. "I'll never look at elevators the same way again after that crazy trip."

"And have you gotten any definite proof from these trips?" Stanley asked this in an unintended, scathing way. He hadn't meant for it to sound like that, but somehow the talk was starting to get on his nerves.

Martin sighed. "I told you, I've talked to spirits before. I've got pictures, and even recorded some conversations with the dead. It's proof enough for the people who hand."

After a short silence, in which Martin skirted the van around a fallen log , Stanley asked, "What's the second reason?"

"Huh?"

"The second reason. You said there are two reasons I've never seen a ghost, and you named one. What's the other?"

Martin looked from the road to Stanley, then back to the road. "The second reason is that you don't allow for the possibility of ghosts. You have to have an open mind, and accept that there might be something out there." A pause. "You just can't come to terms with the unknown."

Stanley felt a little stung. "I'm just being rational, Martin. There comes a point in life where you separate what's real from what's not. There's simply no way ghosts could exist. It makes no sense."

"It's a matter of mind over matter, cuz," retorted Martin, almost whispering the words. "Fantasy and reality. 'Cause what you consider fantasy, I consider reality."

Stanley wondered, again, if he had gone overboard and offended him. Despite himself, though, he felt like he was justified. Martin was deluding himself if he thought every odd shadow or every unusual sound was some sign of an entity beyond the grave.

Martin added, "Is it really that hard to acknowledge that there's something out there we can't explain?"

Stanley didn't answer. The last bit of what his cousin has said gave him an odd feeling he couldn't place. Was it fear? He couldn't fathom it completely.

_But yes_, he thought, as he now stared languidly out the window at the gloomy landscape bouncing by. He didn't like what he couldn't explain. Anything that didn't make sense to him simply couldn't be. And as he thought about it – the more he thought about it – it he couldn't place exactly why he felt like that.

He finally relented. "Look Martin," he began, "I'm sorry about what I…_Look out!_"

At Stanley's shout, Martin turned the wheel hard to the left, and the brakes squealed aloud as the van jumped to the side of the road, where it stopped with a rattling thump. The seatbelts managed to catch both passenger and driver, but it was a jarring halt. Before Martin could recover to ask Stanley what the problem was, the older man had jumped out of the van and onto the muddy road, searching around frantically.

"Stan?" called Martin. "Are you alright? What happened?"

Stanley, heart pounding, looked up and down the dark road. All was quiet, the only sounds coming from the puttering engine of the van and the nighttime cacophony of nocturnal creatures.

Unnerved, Stanley walked back toward the van. Martin stared at him, worried. "Cuz?"

"Did you see them?" stammered Stanley.

Martin scratched his head. "Who?"

"Those people!" Stanley waved his arms in the air. "You didn't see them?"

"I dunno what you're talking about, Stan. I just hit the brakes when you shouted."

Stanley massaged his temples and waited for the adrenaline to go down. "There were three people standing on the side of the road. You really didn't see them? You nearly sideswiped one of them!"

Again, Martin shook his head. "You sure? Why would there be people out here on this stretch of road?"

"They were…" Stanley looked around again, still seeing no evidence of the three people he'd seen. More fireflies danced lazily through the trees at the side of the road. Somewhere, an owl hooted. Stanley blinked, then climbed back into the van and shut the passenger door.

Martin gave him a questioning look.

"They looked like hitchhikers," Stanley resumed.

"Huh?"

"You know…" Stanley stuck a thumb out and waved it. "They were doing that. Hitchhiking." He sighed. "I dunno. Maybe I'm seeing things."

He caught Martin's expression. His goofy cousin had sly smirk that spoke volumes.

"Or maybe…" Martin began.

"Don't even go there, Martin." He buckled himself back in. "Let's just get to the place, OK?"

Martin nodded, but that smug expression didn't leave his face as he got the van back on course.

**Happy Solistice, dear readers! A fresh chapter is served at last! Here's hoping you all enjoy it. Things are starting to get eerie...And that's when the story is most fun to write for me!**

**Big thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far - Aquarian Wolf and Jemima947, I appreciate it. ^^**

**But now, ladies and gentlemen, hang tight. The real chills come later...  
**


	5. Chapter IV

---

**Chapter IV**

---

The scenery around the road finally changed as the van crested a small hill and its headlights washed over a dilapidated landscape. It was a wide, shadowy expanse, interspersed with huge oak trees whose leafy limbs stretched into the dark sky. What appeared to be an ancient wooden bandstand sat in the middle of the clearing; a poor, sagging structure whose once-whitewashed surface was now coated with graffiti. The dirt road became gravel that wound around the parkland, and Stanley noticed a broken wooden fence on the left side of the road, a dirt path running parallel to it. Probably an unused riding trail, he guessed.

"Sedgwick Park," said Martin with a solemn expression. "Uncle Yale told me about this place. He used to come here when he was a kid."

Stanley simply nodded and continued to observe the dreary scenery. They passed a weed-choked pond, where nothing disturbed the stagnate water's surface (though, for a fleeting moment, Stanley thought he saw a pair of reptilian eyes and a huge, scaly body among the reeds). Then the road curved around a ruined memorial; the headless statue of a man in Revolutionary War attire, holding a broken saber before him. This too was a victim of graffiti. For Stanley, it was like looking at a place the world had forgotten, frozen in its own state of decay. It was alien, and for some reason an unwarranted chill went up his spine.

They were just cruising past a small square, the cracked and algae-slick fountain only spraying forth a trickle of water, when Martin spoke again. "There it is!"

Stanley looked up with a start as the van stopped. Ahead, he could see a large brick fence, the top of which was set with iron railings. Though the bricks themselves were low to the ground, he couldn't see through the rails do to a tree that sat directly against it. To the left, the fence curved around into a little wrought-iron gate supported by brick columns. To the right, a larger pair of gates loomed ominously.

Martin was the first to gleefully hop out of the van, immediately jogging to the big gate. Stanley followed, noticing as he put his foot down that the ground was paved. He joined Martin at the gate and peered through the ornate iron.

His jaw dropped.

Beyond the gate, a curving drive led to a huge, three-story manor house. It stood, dark and silent; a grand structure, painted a faded shade of white. The full moon was just rising now, and its dim light revealed the details of the place. Four Roman-esque columns dominated the front of the house, rising to support part of the third floor. Its second-floor balcony was supported by more wrought-iron, the curving details amazingly conveyed even in the half-shadows. Stanley's eye was drawn to the very peak of the mansion, where a belvedere towered over the rest of the house. A weathervane, in the shape of a clipper ship, perched on the roof's point.

Stanley was still trying to grasp the fact that this antebellum building belonged to him as Martin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome home, cuz."

"Wow," Stanley managed. He scratched his head. "It's…bigger than I expected."

"No kidding." Martin flashed a thumbs-up before examining the gate. An old-fashioned padlock held the gates closed. Martin stared at it for a moment.

"Huh," he said. "I hadn't thought about this."

Stanley gave the padlock a tug. It was bigger than his hand and, despite its rusty look, very sturdy. He sighed. "Great. We drive all the way out here and we're locked out."

Martin was already working a foot into one of the ornate gate spaces, hoisting himself up. "I didn't get us here for us to just turn around. Look, this is easy enough to climb!"

Surprised, Stanley watched his cousin slowly scale the gate. "Martin! Are you nuts?" he gasped. "What if someone sees us? We'll look like burglars!"

Martin paused, looked down at Stanley and rolled his eyes. "We're in the middle of nowhere, Stan. Who's gonna report us? Besides, we're locked out of _your _house." He continued climbing.

"Martin!" Stanley whispered desperately. His rational side told him Martin was right, but he couldn't shake the creepy feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching them right at that moment.

No sooner had this eerie sensation crept up on him than a voice, right behind Stanley, said "Excuse me."

Stanley wasn't normally a jumpy person, but jump he did. And let out an involuntary yell as he spun around. Martin, surprised, yelled too as he lost his footing and fell off the gate.

The man standing behind Stanley also yelled in fright and covered his head with both hands, a lantern held in one of them. He was a lean, skinny fellow with a brown, dirty overcoat and a green scarf wrapped around his neck (it wasn't particularly cold out, as far as Stanley could tell). His shoes were covered in mud, as were his trousers. When at last he peeked nervously from around his impromptu guard, Stanley saw the face of a weary, nervous human being. His wide eyes were alive with fright, and unkempt graying hair poked out from under his black cap. A rail thing dog whimpered from its hiding place behind the man's quaking knees.

An awkward moment passed where they simply stared at each other, while Martin sat up and dusted off, groaning to himself. Finally, Stanley managed to say, "Erm, sorry about that, sir. You startled me."

"S-s-same here," the man stammered, a nervous hiccup of a chuckle escaping him. He did seem to relax a bit, but his knees kept quaking. The dog behind him whined and shrunk further behind its master. "I-I didn't mean to s-s-sneak up on you l-like that. Sorry." He tipped his hat with a jittery hand.

Martin was on his feet and with his usual Martin-grin, as if falling off a gate was an everyday occurrence. "I think apologies are accepted all around, folks," he said brightly, than cast a sideways glance at the locked gates. "I hope I didn't give the wrong impression, mister…"

The man blinked blankly at Martin, then started. "O-oh! It's O'Dell, sir. I'm Richard O'Dell. And this is Boney." He gestured to the quaking, near-skeletal dog. The animal's doleful eyes gazed fearfully at the cousins.

_Fitting name_, thought Stanley sardonically. Outside, he said, "I'm Stanley, and this is my cousin Martin."

"Howdy!" Martin chimed.

Richard seemed to be having a hard time comprehending the two of them. Probably just as hard of a time Stanley had comprehending the poor, nerve-rattled man and his skinny dog.

Martin spoke again. "So yeah, Mr. O'Dell. We're not trying to break-in or anything. My cuz here," –he gave Stanley a quick nudge with his elbow- "is the new owner."

"Ah," said Richard, and he nodded. His gaze went from Stanley to the gloom-shrouded mansion and back. "I-I've been expecting you." Before either Martin or Stanley could open their mouths to speak, Richard went on. "I'm the caretaker, you see, keeping the grounds t-tidy and all. I got word you were coming from a Miss…Zoe, was it?"

Stanley turned to Martin, who chuckled. "Oh," he said, to both Stanley and Richard. "Yeah, I know Zoe – my friend I was telling you about, Stan."

Richard nodded. "Y-yes. A-anyway, she told me I should expect a couple of people to show up in a few d-days time, and that one of them would be the new property holder. I-I just f-figured I'd keep my eyes open during my rounds."

"Martin," said Stanley evenly, folding his arms and fixing his cousin with a stare, "how many of your weird friends know about me inheriting this place?"

Martin shamefacedly rubbed the back of his head. "Er…"

Sensing the impending trouble, the groundskeeper stammered, "U-um, does either of you have p-proof of ownership?"

Stanley snorted in Martin's direction and got the ancient title deed from his shirt pocket, along with Uncle Yale's note, and handed them to Richard. The caretaker took them gingerly in his shaking hand and, with the light of his lantern, scanned the documents. This gave Stanley a moment to ponder why a supposedly abandoned mansion had a groundskeeper. It didn't make sense. He turned again to look at the mansions exterior. It did, to a degree, look like Martin's ideal haunted estate, but it lacked the decrepit and deteriorating appearance. Even from this distance, and in this lighting, Stanley could tell that the building looked decently taken care of.

"W-well, I'll be," mused Richard after a while, and he carefully handed the papers back to Stanley. "I-it looks g-genuine to me, M-Mr. Vine. S-so, you want to go i-i-i-" It seemed he couldn't finish the sentence, he was stuttering so badly. He pointed toward the gate.

"Yes please," replied Martin brightly. Stanley just sighed. Between his bizarre relative and the jittery groundskeeper, it was turning out to be an odd welcoming committee.

Richard nodded, gulped, and pulled a large brass ring of keys from a coat pocket. With one hand still holding the lantern, he picked out a key and stuck it in the padlock's keyhole. He looked back at Stanley and Martin, holding the lantern up.

"W-w-would one of y-y-you p-p-please…"

Stanley, without a word, took the lantern, freeing both of the caretaker's hands to work at the lock. Boney the dog sat obediently at his master's side, alert. Light source in-hand, Stanley idly looked from Richard to one of the brick columns holding gate upright. An oval, dark brass plaque on the column caught the light from the lamp, with the words _Gracey Manor_ set into it.

A loud click and clatter sounded, and Richard slowly pushed the gate inward, it hinges squealing a little. The caretaker managed a weak smile. "H-haven't oiled it recently. S-sorry." He accepted the lantern back from Stanley and seemed to hesitate a bit before leading the way onto the grounds, Boney trotting close at his heels.

The walked down the paved drive, which curved along the fence, toward the house. Martin (ever enthusiastic Martin) was trying to strike up a conversation with the groundskeeper, while Stanley hung back and took everything in. A light fog hung close to the ground here, and he could actually stir the fog with his feet as he moved. Ahead, the mansion grew nearer, towering above his head and bathed in moonlight.

"So Richard," Martin was saying, "I'm a little confused. How long have you worked here as caretaker?"

"A-about ten years, I'd say," replied the groundskeeper.

Martin gaped. "Really? That's a long track record you got there! Who pays you, anyway? Isn't this place empty?"

Richard didn't reply, but cast what looked like a nervous gaze at the mansion. Stanley was wondering the same thing Martin was, and if he was expected to pay the man for his work. The lawns and plants did look well-kept, so he assumed Richard was doing a good job.

Staring idly around, Stanley nearly jumped when he saw odd shapes through the ground-mist – animals, dozens of them, all clustered to the left side of the drive near the huge oak tree he'd seen earlier. It took him a moment to realize they were statues…No, monuments. It was a pet cemetery, by the look of it; the animal statues were perched atop headstones. He couldn't read the epitaphs in the gloom, and resolved to check them out later.

He was about to point his discovery out to Martin, but his cousin had found something else of interest: a white hearse carriage, of all things, parked at the end of the drive, just before the manor's porch. Martin, like a kid looking at a toy display, had his face pressed against the glass window. Stanley had to pause a moment himself to consider it. It was like someone was intentionally trying to add a haunted vibe.

"Far out!" he said happily, then turned and looked at Stanley. "This thing is ancient! There's nothing in there, but still!" Then his attention was on Richard. "Hey Richard, you ever see any ghosts?"

Richard froze where he stood, one foot on the porch steps. Very slowly, he turned his head back to look at Martin, his eyes wide.

"G-g-g-ghosts?" he sputtered. "W-w-w-why do y-you ask?"

Stanley rolled his eyes. "He's a paranormal investigator."

Martin opened his mouth to reply, but the groundskeeper had quickly jumped up on the porch and was flicking through his ring of keys again.

"Nice job," muttered Stanley as he came up beside Martin.

"What?" Martin looked puzzled.

"Obviously the poor guy's all jumpy. He's probably never seen anything."

"Maybe he has. That's why he's like that. I just figured if he knew anything…"

Both were startled by a loud groan – the front door opening. Richard was stuffing his keys back in his coat pocket as he pulled it open. Martin made a bizarre giggle-like noise and made tracks for the porch, joining the caretaker on the porch. From what Stanley could see, it was pitch black inside, and a palpable sense of age seemed to waft out as open air poured in.

The caretaker's dog took one look inside, whined pitiably, and trotted behind one of the columns, its tail between its legs.

Stanley joined the other two men on the porch, peering into the shadows. Richard's lantern shook in his grasp, and managed to penetrate the thick wall of black beyond the door. One could just make out the room beyond; a foyer of some sort, choked with cobwebs. Stanley put a hand to his nose to avoid sniffing up the dust that had been disturbed by the door opening.

"Wow," exclaimed Martin. He smirked. "The Orken Man would have a field day in this place!"

Stanley turned to Richard. "I thought you were taking care of this place. It looks dead in there"

Richard's expression shifted from nervous to nervous-with-a-hint-of-embarrassment. "Oh, I-I only take c-care of the outside. It's the…The owners that h-handle the inside."

"That's cool," said Martin. He was digging around in one of his khaki pockets and produced a small flashlight. "We'll scope the place tonight anyway, right cuz?"

"I dunno…" Stanley again looked into the entry. "It looks dangerous. I don't think anyone's been in here for years."

Richard nodded. "Y-y-yes. I'd be careful, if I w-were you." The man's gaze kept flicking away from the door, as if he didn't want to look inside.

"What're you afraid of, Mr. Skeptic?" Martin teased. He grinned and stepped inside, flicking on his flashlight.

Stanley sighed. He was afraid of _real_ dangers, like pitfalls or debris or tripping over something in the dark. They were entering a dilapidated old mansion, and naturally all Martin could think about was chatting up with the undead. He'd probably have to look out for both of them.

"There's no arguing with you, is there?"

Martin grinned wryly to reply.

Stanley looked to Richard. The older man shook his head and shrugged. "If you w-want to l-l-look around, I understand. I-I-If you need anything, you can f-find my place over on the s-s-southeast edge of the g-g-g-g…" He swallowed; a very loud gulp. "The property. I d-d-don't mind visitors."

Smiling kindly, Stanley offered him a hand to shake. "We appreciate all your help, Mr. O'Dell," he said. "I don't suppose you could show us around inside, could you.

Richard glanced at the offered hand, then at the open doorway. He smiled weakly and tipped his hat, but took a cautious step back.

"I-I-I…I have to f-f-finish my rounds, sorry." He tipped his hat again. "Y-y-you never know when p-pranksters might show up."

A third hat-tip, and he practically bolted in the other direction, Boney scampering after him, before Stanley could say a word. He watched them go, the light from Richard's lamp bobbing away into the darkness. He was at a loss for how to gauge the caretaker, but the man seemed genuinely edgy around them. What was that all about?

"Stan!" Martin stood in the doorway, flashlight in hand. "Are you gonna stand out there all night? We got a whole mansion to explore!"

Groaning involuntarily, Stanley turned back toward the yawning entry to his new home. Even he, the skeptic, the sensible one, had to admit the atmosphere of this place would make _anyone_ a little on edge.

---

"Far out…"

The flashlight beam swept over the details of the gloomy foyer, revealing peeling floral wallpaper and dust-covered wainscoting. A cobweb-draped chandelier hung above the heads of the two cousins, still set with ancient candles. Three closed doors offered passage out, other than the way they had come in.

Stanley felt along the wall for any sort of light switch, but fond none. He swatted a stray spider away and stared after Martin. "We really should come back in the morning. I don't want to fumble around in the dark."

"And miss out on the most primary time for ghostly activity?" Martin grinned as the beam of his flashlight's glow washed over a dirty mirror hanging from a wall. Stanley caught his own reflection in it for a moment, distorted and dusty. Martin went on. "No way. I'm bound to pick something up sooner or later."

As he spoke, he pulled what looked like an 8-track cassette recorder out from under his shirt (just how many hidden devices did he have on him?). He opened and closed the tape deck, checking that there was indeed a cassette in there, and hit a red button that snapped on with a click that resounded in the room.

"What's that for?" asked Stanley.

"It's an EVP recorder," said Martin matter-of-factly. "It runs on a different frequency than most recordings. Picks up infrasound, something humans can't actively hear most of the time. Ghosts can sometimes be heard when you play back the recordings." Flashlight in one hand and recording device in the other, Martin wandered toward the double-door directly across from the entrance. "I figured this is the first step in the investigation. If I get good enough feedback, I'll bring my whole Apparition Apparatus kit in here and do a more thorough check."

Stanley shrugged. "Well, as long as you make it quick." He approached the doors Martin was in front of and put his hand on the doorknob. The brass felt unusually cold under his fingertips, but logically, old houses like these were drafty and kept the chill locked inside.

Martin nodded. "Oh yeah. Just wanna get a sense of things tonight, and we can come back tomorrow and get a better grasp of your new place." He gestured to the door. "Spooky so far, innit? Anyway, you've got the lead, cuz. I'm your houseguest."

Spooky? That fit well, but that was the nighttime atmosphere, the odd things left around – like that hearse on the front drive. Stanley made a mental note to ask the caretaker more about that and the other, seemingly deliberate eerie details before he turned the handle and pushed the doors open.

The room beyond was just even darker than the foyer, but the flashlight beam revealed an octagonal room with thick wood paneling along the walls. Both cousins stuck their heads through the doorway and scanned the space before stepping in. It was a high-ceilinged space, the paneling ending about halfway up the wall. Gargoyle-shaped sconces occupied corner, holding unlit, wax-dripped candled in their hands, grinning down into the chamber. Stanley wrinkled his nose at them.

"Brr…" Martin shivered and directed the light up the walls. "It's colder in here. That's a good sign…Hey! Check out these paintings!"

Stanley found himself in an odd state, and only half-listened to Martin's statement. He couldn't place it, but he felt a sense of unease here. Something felt wrong with the room, but nothing obvious that he could tell. He tried to shake the feeling away, telling himself to be rational, but it stuck firm in his gut. Maybe the atmosphere was starting to break through his wall of skepticism.

Finally he did look up, following the flashlight around the room as it moved over four tall paintings, hanging above the gargoyles heads – a smug man in a bowler hat, arms folded over his chest; a smiling woman with hazel eyes, holding a parasol daintily across one shoulder; an official-looking, balding gentleman with a serious expression (added to with his trim brown beard) and a suit; and a old lady with her graying hair in a bun, holding a rose and smirking.

Suddenly, the light went dim. Martin scowled and shook the flashlight. "Huh? What's wrong with this thing? I just got new batteries for it!" Then he a sly smile crept across his face. "Ah. No, this has happened before. This is a _very_ good sign. Power tends to drain from things when ghosts are…Stan?"

That awful feeling…It felt a lot stronger now. Stanley made a quick shushing noise and listened intently, holding up a finger for quiet. Other than the quiet whirr of the tape recorder, there was no other noise to…

Wait.

There it was again. It was barely on the edge of Stanley's hearing, but he could barely make out a new noise: a creaking sort of sound, somewhat rhythmic and so soft that Stanley had nearly missed it under his own breathing. Now that he could hear it, he tried to trace it.

"You hear that, Martin?"

Martin blinked. "What?"

Creak, creak, creak. It was not like the sound of someone stepping on a loose floorboard, or a rocking chair. Stanley suddenly remember when he was a kid, spending a summer with, ironically, Uncle Yale. Martin had been there too, and they used to go out in Yale's big backyard and swing on an old wooden swing that was tied to a tree limb. Once you got it going good enough, the tree limb would groan a little, and the ropes holding the swing would creak when they went taut. The sound Stanley was hearing was akin to that.

He looked up toward the tall ceiling of the room. It had some nice molding details, nothing special. Yet as Stanley stared upward, the feeling he'd had since he entered the room intensified, going quickly from unease to an outright icky feeling. That creaking noise seemed more concentrated now to his ear. What was more, in dimness of the dying flashlight, the shadows began to gather, and a sensation of vertigo swept over him.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

He had to leave this room. Now.

With this dire, instinctual urge, Stanley turned and stumbled out of the room, through the foyer, and back out onto the porch and into the warm night air. He heard Martin call after him, but ignored it. He leaned against one of the columns, breathing heavily, waiting for the nausea and the shakiness to pass. What had just happened in there, he could not grasp. It made no sense, but it was like something oppressive was in that room.

He nearly jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it was just Martin, concern showing in his eye behind his glasses. "Stan?" he asked. "You alright?"

Stanley nodded. "I'll…I'll be fine, Martin. Really." He sat down on the porch steps. "I just…I'm not sure."

Glancing back at Martin, he half-expected some supernatural explanation. He was extremely grateful that Martin simply nodded.

"Alright, cuz, if you say so. Get yourself a bit of air." He turned to the front door. "Would it bother you if I looked around just a little longer? I just want to try one of the other doors. Ten minutes tops, OK?"

Stanley nodded.

Martin gave a quick thumbs-up with the flashlight-hand and jogged back into the foyer. Stanley watched him go, then looked back over the fog-shrouded grounds. He felt like his mind was in a state of turmoil. He wanted to know where his irrational fear had suddenly stemmed from. It was not like him to suddenly be terrified for no reason. What had come over him in there?

He contemplated this. He had not always been a rational person. But he knew better now than to put stock into the supernatural. Everything has a logical, scientific reason. The hard part was trying to figure out what logical, scientific reason had suddenly made him bolt from a room in a panic. Maybe it was just the psychological buildup he'd had all day, culminating in that space. To some extent, he was sure everyone succumbed to that at some point. Perhaps it was simply the timing.

Stanley groaned, shook his head, and glared out toward the mansion's gate. This was all so confusing, and it was hard to think when three people were staring at you from…

Wait.

He did a double-take and looked again. Through the mist, he could indistinctly see the outline of three people, staring at him through the wrought-iron. And what was more, they looked familiar. Before Stanley could make a move, the three strangers, like shadows, dashed away from the gate. Leaping to his feet, Stanley followed them as best he could with his eyes. They seemed to make straight for Martin's van. He saw one of the doors open.

"Martin!"

Stanley was already running toward the gate when Martin emerged from the mansion, slightly bewildered. He picked up the pace nonetheless.

"Someone's trying to steal your van!"

Now they were both even as they skidded around the brick fence and ran at the vehicle. Martin practically slammed into the thing as he made for the open passenger-side door, but Stanley skidded to a stop. What if these guys were crazy? What if they were armed?

Martin, with an uncharacteristic war-cry, dove into the van. It shook and rattler for a few seconds, then silence. The hatch door on the side slid open and a multitude of books spilled out, along with Martin. He pushed his askew glasses back up on his face and glared at Stanley.

"What's the big idea?" he asked, and started shoveling books back into the van. "There's no one in there, cuz."

Stanley sputtered, "I swear I just now saw three people watching me through the gate! Then they ran toward your van, and I saw…"

What _had_ he seen?

"It was them!" he added. "Those guys I thought I saw on the road up here! The hitchhikers!"

Martin, arms full of books, dropped another load in and put a hand on his chin. "Again?"

At a loss, Stanley shook his head. He looked back toward the mansion; it seemed to be looking at him with disdain, its windows like many black, judgmental eyes. He shivered.

"Very intriguing," mused Martin to himself, his bravado completely out of mind. Stanley began to pick up some of the spilled items from the van himself. Martin looked up. "Stan, I say we call it a night. Something's going on here, and it might be better if we come back tomorrow."

Again, Stanley appreciated Martin not bringing anything up about ghosts or goblins. It made things a lot easier. Nodding, he climbed into the passenger side, noticing Martin had left his tape recorder sitting on the seat, still recording. He looked at it for a moment, reached for the "stop" button, then thought better and left alone. Who knew what Martin wanted done with the thing. Best to leave it be.

A moment later, Martin was turning the key in the ignition, and the van sputtered to life. Stanley took another look at the mansion as the headlights came on.

"We left the front door open," he stated.

Martin shrugged. "No worries. That O'Dell guy had the keys anyway. He'll take care of it."

Another thing to ponder on top of everything else, thought Stanley with some agitation. He would have to ask Richard O'Dell some questions when they came by again.

"By the way," said Martin, slowly backing the van up, "what did these guys look like? Did you see them clearly?"

Stanley thought about it a moment. "Well, not really, but they…"

He trailed off, eyes wide. In the rear-view mirror, he could see his reflection, Martin's reflection, and the cluttered space in the rear of the vehicle. Only now three pale faces blocked the backseat view, also reflected in the mirror, leering at him; one with sunken eyes and a skeleton grin, one with a round, pudgy smirk; and a third with thickly matted hair covering most of the face, saves for a protruding nose and pair of beady eyes. In unison, the apparitions waved at him, the skull-faced phantasm tipping its bowler hat in the process.

With a jolt, Stanley snapped his head to look into the back. There was no one to be seen. He looked back at the mirror. Empty.

---

**Took me long enough to get this chapter up. My apologies. School is doing what it does best and comsuming a lot of my time. However, one of my classes is already over and done with, which allows me more free time!**

**Again, big thanks to everyone for their kind reviews. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this most recent chapter. After all, there's no turning back now...**


	6. Chapter V

---

**Chapter V**

**---**

Sleep had not been an easy thing to achieve that night. Rattled as he was, Stanley kept tossing and turning, unable to slip into a quiet comfort zone. When he did manage to doze, ghastly images filled his dreams. He kept seeing the mansion in his mind, like a hungry entity waiting to lure him into itself. And then he would see the trio of ghosts, leering at him, drawing nearer and nearer…

Snapping awake, Stanley sat bolt upright in bed and stifled a gasp. He felt exhausted, and it took him several moments to get his breathing back under control. He stared blankly at the sheets covering his legs, head swimming. He was almost afraid to avert his eyes, worried he might glimpse something he did not want to see.

Yet he did, and was glad that he was still surrounded by a standard motel room, daylight filtering in from around the curtain drawn over the window. In the other bed, Martin snored quietly, on leg hanging off at a strange angle. Stanley smirked and swung his feet out onto the carpet, crossing the room to the bathroom. Things were normal, as they should be.

He almost laughed as he splashed cold water from the sink on his face. What he had witnessed the night prior seemed ridiculous here and now. Martin gassed him up with ghost stories, and the mansion's strange décor added to it. His mind was playing tricks on him, obviously; making a nervous wreck out of him. He was appreciative to his cousin for simply getting them back into town and finding a place to stay for the night. He hadn't told Martin about his imagined ghouls in the backseat, too freaked at the time to manage the words. And he intended to keep that unknown.

Stanley felt a chill run up his spine, and he rubbed his arms. It was a little chilly in here. He was just to turn off the room's AC when two things happened:

First, he realized the AC wasn't on. They'd turned it off before turning in for the night.

Second, he looked up at the bathroom mirror and saw _them_ again.

With the bathroom door open, the mirror managed to reflect most of the motel room. And they were in it – pale blue, transparent, and hazy. The tall, near-skeletal one with the bowler hat and the sunken eyes was looking at the little TV set on the dresser, one gnarled hand on his chin. The chubby round-faced specter, sporting a top hat and a carpetbag in one hand, also stared at the TV with a quizzical smile. The third one sat on the edge of his bed, a little figure whose entire face was hidden by long unruly hair and a beard, twiddling his thumbs. This one was dressed in a simple smock or gown, and Stanley saw a spectral ball and chain shackled to his ankle.

He blinked stupidly, his mind numb. Slack-jawed, he turned and looked at the room. No sign of the things in the mirror. He looked back. They were still reflected there. The two standing phantoms were nodding to each other, and while Top Hat set his carpetbag down and opened it, Skinny rubbed his hands together and reached for the TV, a glint in his eye.

"Martin!" Stanley cried weakly, his voice catching in his throat and coming out as a squeak. He coughed and spun on his heel, dashing over to his cousin and shaking his shoulder. "Martin! Get up!"

Martin snorted and rolled over, pulling a sheet over his head. He murmured something unintelligible.

Frustrated, Stanley grabbed the edge of the mattress and lifted it. The sudden movement sent Martin tumbling out of bed and onto the floor opposite. He fumbled about, caught in the covers, and tripped again the moment he stood up. Stanley ran around the bed to find Martin sitting there, a sleepy grin on his face.

"Morning already, cuz?" He yawned. "Where's the fire?"

Without warning, Stanley hauled Martin up by the collar of his pajamas and dragged him into the bathroom, pointing him toward the mirror.

"There!" said Stanley. "What do you see?"

Martin rubbed his eyes and stared at the mirror. "Well, not much without my glasses."

Stanley moaned. Looking into the mirror, he saw both he and Martin, but no sign of the three ghosts – the three _figments_ _of his imagination_. Stanley kicked himself mentally. Was he going completely nuts?

Shaking, he sat down on the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands, massaging his temples. It made no sense. None.

"Cripes, it's cold in here Stan," he heard Martin say. A moment later, light flooded the room as the curtain was pulled back. "Hey cuz, you alright? You don't look so hot."

Stanley groaned. "Understatement of the year," he said.

"Come to think of it," continued Martin, "you've been real jumpy since last night. I don't blame you. It was pretty creepy over there."

This elicited another groan. "I'm just…I dunno. I'm seeing things, and it's freaking me out." He looked up at Martin, who was just putting on his glasses. "Don't even start about ghosts, though. I know I'm not seeing ghosts, because-"

"Because ghosts don't exist," Martin finished for him. He chuckled. "And I wasn't going to say anything about it. Maybe it's just night terrors or something." He shrugged.

That was possible. Stanley hoped it was just the lingering effects of a dream, or insomnia, or _something_ other than his sanity. How was he supposed to explain, though, the hitchhikers popping up again and again? Or the panic he had experienced while in that dark, octagonal room? He hadn't felt anything like that for years. Not until last night. Not until he had started down that shadowy road toward the mansion.

It all settled around the mansion, he realized. Something there had triggered a forgotten part of his subconscious, and he knew it. But why?

And he suddenly remembered Uncle Yale's final message to him: _Keep your head, and keep a stiff upper lip!_ Did he know something about this?

Too many questions, not enough answers – Stanley rightly felt that he was entangled in something big by this point. And he wouldn't back out.

Stanley got to his feet. "How soon can we go back to the estate?" he asked.

Martin looked surprised. "Oh? Well, I was hoping to get some positive feedback off my EVP device, see if I picked up anything." He gave a thumbs-up and grinned. "After that, though, I'm ready to hit the road."

"Good," said Stanley. "The sooner the better."

"Why rush?" Martin exclaimed, putting an arm around Stanley's shoulders. "I mean, even if you're not a believer in the supernatural, its best we go in the evening. We've got the whole day ahead of us, and I haven't even eaten breakfast." He chuckled, patting his cousin on the back. "But if you're looking for answers, than you might be inclined to poke around in the same place I want to go."

Stanley looked Martin in the eye. "Which is…?"

Martin winked. "Trust me on this one, Stan."

---

"Le Bat en Rouge?"

Martin smiled as he hopped out of the van. "Charming, isn't it?"

"Charming" wasn't exactly the word Stanley would apply to the strange shop. It was located in one of the winding, narrow side streets in old New Orleans, and the building it was a part of looked like it had been there since at least the early 1900's, judging from its architecture. The shop itself was easy to spot, its front windows hung with purple and black drapes and the bat-shaped iron sign that hung above the front door. The window display was a clutter of dusty objects, and on the wall above were painted the words "Antiques, Curios and Macabre Trinkets," in a flowing, red-colored script.

For once that day, Stanley cracked a smile. "Looks like your kinda place, Martin. You been here before?"

Martin shook his head. "I've read about it. You remember my insider friend? She works here, and I figured we'd stop in and say hello. She's a wealth of information about your place, I'll tell you what."

Stanley nodded. "You did mention her a couple times." He took a step over to the window display, peering through the dirty glass into the shadowy interior of the shop. A faded purple card was propped against some of the odds-and-ends in the window, advertising "Fortunes Told! Palm Reading, Teas Leaves, Crystal Gazing." It didn't give the medium's name, and Stanley wondered if it was just another antique or if it was for a service of Le Bat en Rouge.

Martin was opening the van's side door. "I'll head in a sec, alright? Gotta grab a couple things for the EVP test." As he rummaged around through the mess of books, Stanley smirked and turned back to the window.

There they were again. It was somehow less startling than before, but it was still a dull punch to the guts for Stanley. Reflected in the window, he saw the hitchhikers clamber out of the van, passing right through Martin's books and stepping around the younger cousin. Skinny grinned a horrible grin as he took in the surroundings, absently twirling his bowler derby between his fingers and setting it back on his head. Top Hat was trying to help Beardy out of the van, the shorter phantom struggling against the ball and chain he lugged behind him. With a tug on the arm, Top Hat pulled Beardy clear, and his transparent ball fell right through Martin's foot. Stanley gasped.

Martin didn't flinch, didn't even notice them there. All three ghosts looked at each other nervously, then at Beardy's ball and chain. The shaggy dwarf of an apparition finally shrugged and pulled at his shackle, rolling the ball clear of Martin.

Stanley shot a quick glance behind him – the scene was devoid of spirits, as he'd expected – and then quickly ducked into the shop.

Once inside, Stanley put a hand on his forehead and shook his head, barely taking in his surroundings. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he really was starting to crack up, seeing things that weren't there. He knew he was better than this, but he had to find a way to shake this off.

Somehow, he found the atmosphere of the shop soothing. There was musty, shoe-polish sort of smell; very faint but prevalent in the air. The shop itself looked like a cross between a museum, a roadside attraction, and someone's storage space. All manner of antique objects filled every available cranny and nook, either crammed onto wall shelves and freestanding cabinets or sitting on the floor, if they were big enough. Stanley practically bumped into an authentic-looking suit of armor as he took everything in. Even with the weak light that entered the shop through the grimy windows, he could tell the owners had packed a lot of stuff into a small room.

Near the back wall was a counter, where Stanley could hear faint Grunge music emanating. Cautiously, he made his way around the fragile-looking knickknacks toward it. The music, he saw, was coming from the set of headphones that the girl behind the counter wore – a girl that seemed to fit the word "Goth" to the letter. She had short, spiked black hair, a nose ring, black lipstick and mascara around her eyes, and was dressed almost entirely in black, preppy clothing. Her Converse (also black) were parked up on the countertop as she reclined back in a chair, reading a magazine and bobbing her head to the heavy beat.

Stanley stared for a moment. The girl was obviously unaware of his presence. Clearing his throat, he said, "Excuse me. Miss?"

No response. Stanley leaned against the counter and tried again. "Excuse me. Hello?"

The Goth girl flipped a page of her magazine, head nodding.

With a sigh, Stanley looked around the immediate area. Spying a portable CD player on the counter, Stanley casually hit the Pause button.

The music ceased. The girl, blinking, lifted one of the phones from here ear, and looked up, in an instant noticing Stanley. Her expression went from confusion to something like boredom.

"'Sup?" she said casually, sliding her feet off the counter.

Stanley wasn't sure what to say. He was a little surprised by the girl's audacity. He was a potential customer, after all. Even so, he kept going. "You work here?"

The girl almost rolled her eyes, but caught herself. "Sure do. What's up? You looking for something?" Before Stanley could speak, the Goth gestured behind her to a paint-chipped wooden door marked _Employees Only_. "If it's psychic stuff, can't help you. Ms. Audrey's upstairs with a cold, and it's 'clouding her vision,' or something."

Stanley smirked. "No. I'm just browsing. I heard this place had some good information on the local folklore."

The girl remained neutral. "Fab. You're in the right place for it, then. What do you want to know about?"

Just as he was opening his mouth to speak, he heard the door of the shop open and close. Both he and the girl looked up to see Martin, nearly hidden behind an armful of audio equipment, toddle into the room. He peered awkwardly around his burden at them, spotted the girl, and grinned.

"Zoe!"

The Goth's face broke into a similar grin, and she squealed. "Martin the Spartan!" she exclaimed. She moved around the counter and was at Martin's side in an instant, carefully grabbing some of the things he carried. "Cripes, you got a lot of stuff! Lemme help."

"Thanks," sighed Martin with relief. He noticed that Stanley was snickering quietly. "What's so funny?"

Stanley just waved a hand and went on chuckling. _Martin the Spartan_, he thought to himself with amusement. On the plus, he now knew who Martin's mysterious insider was, and how appropriately she fit that role. Everything seemed pretty silly right now, and it felt good to laugh.

"Glad to see you!" Zoe was saying, taking the objects back behind the counter. "I've been – Oh, you can put that stuff down there. It's chill."

Martin carefully set his hodgepodge of devices down against the wall. Most if it looked like old audio-mixing equipment, along with the tape deck Martin had used earlier. Once his hands were free, he turned to Zoe, and the two of them performed a complicated series of hand movements that Stanley could only surmise as a secret handshake of sorts. Giggling, Zoe gave Martin an energetic hug.

"How've you been?" she was saying. "Have you been over to the Gracey house yet? Oh jeez! Did you see anything creepy?"

Chuckling, Martin managed to pull away from the now-perky Goth. "One thing at a time, girl! I've barely gotten in the door!" He glanced at Stanley, then back to Zoe. "I've been doing alright. Can't complain, really. Just had an amazing stroke of luck with the whole mansion thing. That's why I'm here." He pointed to the equipment on the floor. "I was hoping you'd help me with the EVP."

"You bet!" she replied, nodding vigorously.

Stanley, watching the two of them, felt he had effectively faded into the background as much as the forgotten antiques. He coughed loudly, getting their attention. Then he said, "Mind introducing me to you friend, Martin?"

"Oh!" Martin laughed. "Right! Zoe, this is my cousin Stanley. He's the one who owns the mansion now."

Zoe was across the room in an instant, startling Stanley as she zipped over to him. "Fab!" she said enviously, sticking out a hand to shake. "Nice to meet 'cha! How was the place? You been inside yet?"

Stanley backed away slightly, bumping against the counter. "Yeah," he managed. The sudden change from indifferent to energetic made this girl a little unnerving. He added, "We didn't get very far in."

"Too bad," sighed Zoe. "I was hoping for some stories. Still, at least you crossed the threshold!" She laughed. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to take a look inside!"

Nodding, Stanley looked past her at Martin, who was grinning from ear to self-satisfied ear. Stanley furrowed his brows, but said nothing. More and more he felt like he was caught in the whirlwind of Martin's world.

"I can imagine," replied Stanley after a moment.

Zoe spun on her heel and faced Martin. "Cool! So, what say you we take your stuff into the back and I can fire up my comp? I'm _dying_ to see if you caught any phenomena!"

Martin was already gathering some of his equipment. "Pun intended, right?" he smirked.

Again, Stanley felt the shadow of two very hyper geeks as they, with armfuls of radio equipment, gabbed enthusiastically about ghosts, goblins and other assorted bumps-in-the-night. He followed them as Zoe moved around the counter and opened the _Employees Only_ for them. Down a short, cramped hall and past a narrow flight of stairs they went, reaching an unmarked door at the end. The conversation ceased for a moment as the Goth rummaged in her jeans pocket for a key while managing her burden of Martin's things.

"I keep it locked, just in case," she explained. Her tongue poked out of her mouth as she searched. There was a small metal piercing in it. "Dammit, it's never right there at the top."

Stanley was finally able to step back into things. "So," he said to Martin, "how long have you two known each other?"

Martin smiled. "Oh, for awhile now. Met on the _GG&G_ forums, and we've been emailing each other a lot since."

"I've always been a fan of your cousin's show," Zoe chimed in. "You've got some talented relations – Ah! Here it is!" She triumphantly stuck the key in the door and turned. "We actually met in person for the first time at last year's HauntCon." She pulled the door open. "It was a scream."

Beyond the door was a closet. At least, it looked about the size of one. Somehow, the meager space had been filled with a small desk, a folding chair, and a desktop computer. On the walls were tacked dozens of printed articles, newspaper clippings, and photographs – all of them, Stanley noted at a glance, related to the mansion. As he stared, Zoe stepped in and switched the computer on. It hummed to life.

"Little tight in here," she said apologetically. "Ms. Audrey lets me use this for my research. So as long as neither of you have issues with personal space…"

Martin squeezed past Stanley. "Not a problem, Zoe! Let's get this show on the road!"

Hovering in the doorway, Stanley's eyes flicked across the information on the walls. "I'll just…stay here, thanks." He couldn't believe how much Zoe had apparently gathered on the manor. It felt like a detective's office – albeit a very small, windowless one.

Martin was put his equipment on the desk, Zoe plugging wires into the computer that fed into them, each of them occasionally muttering apologies and chuckling as they bumped into each other. "I gotta thank you for getting the word in we were coming," Martin said, "or we would have been locked out last night."

"No problem," Zoe replied casually. "I just gave Mr. O'Dell a call and told him to expect you."

That reminded Stanley of the question that had been hovering in the back of him mind since he'd arrived. "How do you know the groundskeeper so well, Zoe?"

The girl looked up from her work and smirked. "Probably because I'm always snooping around the place. It's been a hobby of mine to study the mansion. As much as I can, at least." She gestured to her plethora of items on the walls.

"Has he always been so…jittery?" asked Stanley

"Oh yeah, the poor man. He's a real sweetheart. And his dog is an adorable little thing. But he lives out there by himself. I think he's seen more than he lets on. Either way, though he's been real nice to me, he still won't let me in." She blushed slightly. "He caught me trying to hop the fence a couple times. Let me off with a warning."

"Any idea why he works around a place that's abandoned?"

Zoe shrugged. "No clue. He told me he gets paid, but he won't say whose paying. I've seen his work though. He does a good job keeping the place from falling apart."

Something still seemed fishy to Stanley. "So you've been around there a lot?"

"You bet! It's spookalicious!"

Both the cousins chortled, though Martin hid it by taking off his cap and putting on a battered pair of headphones. He flicked the switch on his tape deck and listened intently. "Cool. Got it," he said. "Mind running this through a filter, Zoe?"

Zoe obligingly turned back to the computer and opened a program. On screen, a window popped up with the pixilated images of sound: various bars moving up and down in one corner and a pulse of colored plenoptic waves in another.

"How does it sound, Marty?" Zoe inquired.

Martin shook his head. "Nothing yet. The playback's fine, but I haven't heard anything through the EVP."

Zoe nodded. "I could switch it to the main speakers if you'd like."

"Let me just hear through it once like this," replied Martin. The glow from the monitor made his glasses shine, and the reflection hid his eyes.

"Right on, right on. Anyway," she said, returning to her conversation with Stanley, "the mansion's been a part of our local legend for a long time, and I've been interested in it ever since I was a little kid. Not to brag or anything, but I am a bit of an authority on the Gracey estate, even if I've never been inside the old house." She folded her arms and fixed Stanley with a mock glare. "And here you are; the new owner. I envy you."

Stanley shook his head. "It sort of came as a surprise…" He trailed off when he noticed Zoe had turned back to the monitor. He sighed. Stanley still had his questions, but he opted to let the two concentrate on their task. It wasn't like they would find anything anyway. And yet…

He happened to see a reflection of the room in Martin's glasses. A faint greenish-bluish glow was coming from behind him in the reflection, and he looked over his shoulder quickly, just to reassure himself he was still only seeing things. Then he returned to looking at Zoe's findings, almost forcefully reading the first thing he saw: an old newspaper front page copied and printed on newer paper. The paper, titled the _Delta Witness_, advertised its main story in bold letters:

**GEORGE GRACEY SLAIN BEFORE NEW BRIDE'S EYES**

Immediately below this was an illustration of a mustached gentleman with thinning hair, side-by-side with the image of the mansion in its heyday. Though some of the print was small and worn, Stanley squinted and followed the story as best he could. It was just like Martin had said earlier – there was a documented incident of murder.

He had gotten through a bit of the story, reading up on how George Gracey had been killed on the night of his wedding by a then-unknown assailant, when he heard Martin gasp "Holy cow!"

He spun around. Martin was staring at the monitor, a look of shock and awe on his face. He hit the Rewind button on his cassette player and made a couple adjustments on the computer program, then hit Play. Again, he gasped.

"What? What?" Zoe looked from the screen to Martin. "I saw the meter spike. Is that a good thing?"

Martin, not answering, hit Rewind again, made even more adjustments, and listened again.

"You gotta hear this," he whispered, pulling off his headphones. Without prompting, Zoe turned the computer's speakers on. Martin rewound the tape a third time. Stanley leaned slightly into the closet/room, intrigued.

There was a buzz, and then he heard Martin's voice. _"Brr…It's colder in here. That's a good sign…Hey! Check out these paintings!"_

"Paintings?" said Zoe suddenly. She stared at Martin, looking like a little girl told she was going to Disneyland. "Oh my gosh! What kind of paintings? There's still a bunch of old junk in there? Wicked!"

Martin made a shushing sound, looking unusually serious. Zoe collected herself, flustered, and continued listening. Stanley listened too.

"Here's the first thing I noticed," Martin pointed out quietly. And Stanley shivered; over the recording, he could hear the eerie, rhythmic creaking sound he had heard the night before. It sent his blood running cold.

_"Huh? What's wrong with this thing? I just got new batteries for it,"_ said Martin's recorded voice. Everyone leaned in slightly, trying to pick up the creaks over the talking. _"Ah. No, this has happened before. This is a very good sign. Power tends to drain from things when ghosts are…Stan?"_

Creak. Creak. Creak.

Stanley's mouth felt very dry very suddenly. He managed to croak out. "You guys hear it too?"

Zoe and Martin nodded, and Stanley gulped. Either only he had picked it up before, or Martin had lied about not hearing the sound.

They were listening so intently that they were scarcely prepared for the deep, booming voice that said, **"Welcome."**

Stanley jumped. Zoe squeaked. Martin put a hand to his brow, then paused the recording. Slowly, he turned to face Stanley. His expression was somewhere between nervousness and giddiness.

"See what I mean?" he said.

"Oh my God." Zoe shivered. "You guys didn't hear that last night?"

Stanley shook his head. "It sounded like…"

"Play it again," insisted Zoe. Martin did so, rewinding the tape and hitting Play. Again, there was Martin talking. Again, the creaking noise.

"**Welcome."**

It wasn't as startling the second time, but that just made it creepier. The voice over the recording was too distinct to be anything but what it was: a voice saying "Welcome."

"So," said Martin, once they had played the recording a third time.

Zoe said, after a moment, "Is there anything else on the recording?"

Martin shook his head. "I haven't heard it all yet. We recorded past this, but this just caught me by surprise." His eyes lit up behind his glasses. "But this is amazing! It was clear voice! Loud, too!"

The Goth girl nodded enthusiastically. "And scary! And you swear you didn't hear this before?" She looked at Stanley as she said this. Caught off guard, he shook his head. He really hadn't.

He didn't want to put stock in it. Not yet. But already too many weird things had been happening within the last couple days. He was beginning to think that anything – even ghosts – were possible. And it made his inner skeptic weep. How was he going to rationalize all this?

Martin seemed ecstatic. "Far out! I knew this place would be my big break! If what we heard is really what we heard, then I've got one very haunted mansion to investigate!"

Zoe laughed. "I knew it! Oh cripes, dude!" Martin jumped and they hugged each other, giggling. Stanley merely gaped, his expression null. Then he quietly stepped out of the doorway and back down the hall, where he could hopefully find a quiet place to scream, than calmly return to his normal way of life.

---

"What's with your cousin?" Zoe asked, watching Stanley go.

Martin shrugged. "He's not big on stuff like this. We're probably confusing him."

The perky Goth scratched her head. "He's a skeptic, then? Why would your uncle leave a haunted mansion to a skeptic?"

"Beats me," Martin answered with a sigh. "Still, he was cool enough to let me do some paranormal investigations in his new place."

"Lucky." Zoe stuck her tongue out at him, than giggled. "Martin, you gotta take me with you when you head back!"

Martin rubbed his chin. "I'd love to, but that's really up to Stan. It's his place." When her face fell, he added, "I'll talk to him, OK? It should be alright."

Zoe smiled. "Thanks Marty. Gosh, you have no idea how long I've wanted to poke around in there…"

"Martin!" Stanley's voice came shouting from down the hall.

Martin poked his head out and called back. "What?"

"I just called the motel we were staying in," Stanley stated, "and I asked them if they were missing their TV!"

Martin looked puzzled. "Why?"

"Because there's a TV sitting in the back of your van, and it's a dead ringer to the one the management just got done yelling at me about!"

---

**(Woo! Here it is, folks! Chapter V! The semester is over, so I haves scads of free time. I'm working on other projects here and there, but I haven't forgotten about this one! I'll try and get more frequent posts in.**

**For this particular chapter, I owe major thanks to Aquarian Wolf for letting me use Zoe, a character of hers she used in "Ghostly Retreat," the Haunted Mansion RPG. I had a lot of fun writing her, and I hope I did her justice. Thanks again, AW!**

**So, until next time, I return to the writer's cave...Feel free to leave a review.)  
**


	7. Chapter VI

**Chapter VI**

**---**

"I still don't see what you're so annoyed about," said Martin. "I mean, all I asked was if Zoe could come along."

Stanley said nothing in response, instead fixedly staring ahead at the rain-soaked windshield. The van lurched and rattled down the muddy road, with only its headlights piercing the darkness. Occasionally the windshield wipers would swipe past, groaning pitiably against the glass.

Martin cast his cousin a glance, but immediately turned his attention back to the road. "We didn't have to go back tonight either. I mean, I didn't expect the rain."

"Maybe we should have checked the weather forecast on our stolen television," said Stanley, not without a touch of acid.

A little hurt by this, Martin snorted. "Why are you blaming me for that? I have no idea how the thing got there!" He made a turn to the right as the van bounced into the swampy ruins of Sedgewick Park. "And I know you wouldn't have taken it. It wasn't a very good TV either."

Stanley sighed. They had taken the TV back to motel and apologized – several times – for the mishap. It was embarrassing. By the time that had cleared up, it was already getting on toward evening, and Stanley insisted they go back to mansion as soon as possible. However, as they set out, storm clouds loomed in the sky, coal-gray and ominous, making for an early darkness. The first drops of rain had begun as they turned onto the forlorn stretch of road that led to Sedgewick Park.

"Martin, look," said Stanley at last, "I don't know what happened either, but the last couple days have been trying on my nerves, and I'd rather avoid as many complications as I can. That's why I wanted it to be just the two of us poking around."

"You calling Zoe a complication?" retorted Martin.

Stanley chuckled. "I'd just rather not have to deal with her and her, uh, enthusiasm at the moment. She can come and be a ghost freak once we've checked the place better."

Martin rarely looked really agitated, but his face was beginning to cave into it. "You're talking to a so-called 'ghost freak,' you realize."

A brief flash in the sky lit the landscape for a moment, revealing the muddy road, the ancient trees draped with Spanish Moss, and the moldering remains of the park's man-made elements. A distant thunderclap followed as once more the view was plunged into darkness. For a moment, Stanley looked up at the rearview mirror, but quickly averted his eyes, as if afraid he might see if his "imaginary friends" were behind him again.

Truth be told, he was mulling a lot of things over in his head, many of which he did not want to tell Martin. Part of his reasoning for not bringing Zoe with them was that he was beginning to suspect that something was up, and somehow both his cousin and the Goth were in on it. They both knew a lot more about the area than he did, and he had allowed Martin to cover everything by himself. He wasn't denying the possibility that this all might be an elaborate prank that his cousin had set up to try and shake the skeptic out of him. That was the only rational thing he could attribute to what was happening, so naturally his mind was starting to latch onto the idea, and he was becoming increasingly distrustful of Martin.

The van slowed, than stopped, the headlights washing over the brick-and-iron fence that surrounded the property. With the engines off, the patter of the rain on the vehicle's roof became much more pronounced. Thunder rumbled again, this time much closer.

"Well," said Martin, suddenly his usual chipper self, "here we go again. You might want to grab an umbrella or something." He clambered around his seat and into the back of the van, where he dodged a few piles of books and made for the metal ice chest. "I finally get to bust out the AA Kit!"

They were both surprised, upon stepping out into the downpour, that the front gates were unlocked. "Maybe the caretaker was expecting us again?" asked Stanley.

"Or he never locked up after us," added Martin. Both of them peered through the gate at the mansion. If it looked gloomy and mysterious in the moonlight and fog, it looked downright frightening in the rain. As if on cue, a bolt of lightning arced through the tumultuous skies behind the house, throwing the building into sharp relief for a moment.

The rain began beating down much harder, and both men covered their heads and dashed up the drive until they reach the manor's covered porch. Now in a relatively dry place, Stanley noted that Martin was wearing a weathered backpack that had antenna poking out of it. He was taking advantage of the shelter to fish a headset and microphone out of his pack. Catching Stanley confused expression, he grinned.

"Part of my Apparition Apparatus Kit. I can record live radio feed through this baby, and it picks up infrasound as well, so I can conduct conversations."

Stanley just shrugged, lost. On any normal occasion, he might have jokingly asked if Martin interviewed any famously dead folk. But this was anything but normal, and it was making Stanley sick. For his own sake, though, he tried to shove his negative thoughts behind him. The situation they were in was amazingly cliché, after all: two lone travelers, about to take shelter in a haunted mansion on a dark and stormy night. Really, what could go wrong?

With that in mind, he tried the front door, and finding it unlocked (as they had left it), pushed it open and peered into the dark foyer. It was as gloomy and ancient as the night prior, save that there was a faint scent of mildew in the air. Probably to do with the rain, he thought.

Martin followed him inside, where the pair paused for a moment in the shadows. Stanley kept brushing aside cobwebs as he listened. The rain pattered relentlessly outside, and there was another far-off rumbling in the heavens. He could also hear a quiet whirring noise – Martin's backpack, doing whatever-it-was that it did. Martin was turning in a slow circle, his microphone held out to the room as if expecting some phantom member of a studio audience to appear and talk to him.

"It's not much," he said quietly, but I'm picking up something. Definitely something. Possibly a lot of somethings…Nothing's coming through very clear, though. I think we might want to go further into the house."

Stanley's gaze fell upon the double doors leading to the octagonal room, thankfully closed. Even just standing on the other side, he felt uneasy. There was just something _wrong_ about it, that room.

It might have just been the storm outside, but Stanley thought he heard the distant, somber notes of…what? A pipe organ? "You've got to be kidding," he said aloud.

"What?" Martin responded.

Stanley shrugged, turning away from the doors. "Nothing. Can we possibly avoid that room tonight?"

Martin looked past Stanley and nodded. "Yeah. Sure." He turned to the set of double doors on the foyer's left wall. "Nothing in there but a dead end anyway." He stopped long enough to fish a couple of flashlights from his backpack and, handing one to Stanley, pushed the doors open. The ancient wood creaked as they swung slowly inward.

Lightning flashed beyond, revealing briefly the outline of a long and dusty hallway. Windows with moth-eaten curtains lined one wall, rain beating against the glass on the other side. On the opposite wall hung a series of paintings and portraits. Cobweb-draped chandeliers seemed to loom overhead.

Martin was the first in, his flashlight sweeping over the faded hall-length rug and the dark wood wainscoting. Stanley slowly, carefully, stepped in behind. He did not want to feel like he was walking on eggshells, but he was slightly leery he might trigger something. He felt like he was being set up, and his unease was beginning to take a step back in place of some agitation.

"Far out," Martin whispered, gazing at the paintings. Straightening, he reached back and adjusted something near the antenna on his backpack. Then he spoke into the mic. "Testing…Testing…Good. That's good…Hi, ghost fans! This is your on-the-spot reporter, currently tip-toeing through the halls of the eerie Gracey Mansion in New Orleans! This is a rare opportunity for you listeners of Ghoulish Ghosts and Graveyards, since this is the first time a documented paranormal investigation – and with luck, interview – has been conducted within these haunted walls!"

Stanley sighed and attempted to distract himself by taking a closer look at the portraits. These were top-quality oil paintings depicting various scenes. He followed each of them down the hall. The first was an exotic, Cleopatra-like woman sprawled lazily across a low sofa, an alluring smile on her face. Next was a dramatic scene of a knight on horseback, his steed rearing and the knight's sword held to the sky. The third painting gave Stanley pause – a portrait of a young man in a period suit, with wavy brown hair and inquisitive blue eyes. One might say he was strikingly handsome. At least that was what Stanley thought when he saw the painted figure.

"I couldn't have done any of this," Martin was saying, "without the help of my favorite cousin, Stanley Vine." A microphone was suddenly pushed into Stanley's face. "Care to say a few words, cuz?"

Stanley snorted and pushed the mic away. Martin gave him a hurt look, then immediately returned to his running commentary. "Anyhow, folks, with any luck more evidence of ghostly activity will come to light as we delve deeper into the mansion. Already my trusty Apparition Apparatus has picked up minor signs of a supernatural presence. Keep your fingers crossed, ghost-fans, and stay tuned!" That said, Martin flicked the switch near his antenna again and began shuffling down the hall with his mic held in front of him like divining rod. Small clouds of dust kicked up from his feet and danced in the beam of Stanley's flashlight.

Rolling his eyes, Stanley looked back at the painting as another flash of lightning outside lit the hall.

A bug-eyed skeleton in a rotting suit stared at him from the frame.

Stanley felt his heart shoot into his throat as he stumbled backward, nearly falling over. Unconsciously, as if he needed an excuse to avert his eyes, he turned his head toward Martin as more lightning threw outlines of the curtained windows across the floor. His cousin was at the end of that hall, investigating a pair of stern-faced marble busts set into wall alcoves. Blinking, Stanley looked back at the painting, hands shaking.

A handsome gentleman in a suit smiled; his blue eyes poignant in the gloom.

This was getting ridiculous. Stanley rubbed his eyes and looked again: there was no change to the portrait. It was a trick of the light. The atmosphere playing on his mind. Stanley gritted his teeth and glared defiantly at the portrait, as if daring it to prove him wrong. It did nothing of the sort.

This was all some elaborate joke. It had to be.

"Martin!" Stanley stalked past the remaining two paintings (a clipper ship under full sail in one; a woman in ancient Greek attire in the other) and marched to the end of the hall, where the busts seemed to glower at him. The hall curved to the right past the busts, and Stanley rounded the corner as thunder rumbled behind him. "Martin, that's it. We're going back to the van and- Oof!"

He had practically walked into Martin's back, and both of the cousins did an awkward stumbling dance to keep from falling. "Sorry," they both said in unison. Then, before Stanley could go back to making demands, he saw what Martin saw and lost his train of thought.

The hall seemed to have ended in some cavernous space, perhaps a sort of grand hall…Stanley couldn't tell. They could not see the any far walls or the ceiling overhead – the beams of their flashlights seemed to simply carry on into the dark as if they were pointing their lights into an empty night sky. The illumination did reveal several stanchions set into the carpeted floor, topped with candelabras; not too far into the gloom, grand staircases – one on the left and one on the right - leading up and away into the shadows. The bottom of each stair was flanked by carved wooden griffons, holding the end of the banisters stoically on their folded wings.

"Stan," Martin whispered in awe, as if afraid to disturb the dismal air of the room, "can you believe this?"

Stanley took a couple experimental steps forward, slowly pointing his flashlight around. "No way," he muttered. "This room is too big. I mean, this is a big place and all, but…" He trailed off. Here was something else that defied logic.

And he was getting really tired of it.

Martin, half-smirk in place, walked across the room until he stood in the area roughly between the two staircases. He pointed his light up one set, then the other. "I can't see where these go," he said. His voice somehow carried perfectly across the room. "Which one should we go up first?"

"Neither," replied Stanley, now looking up into the inky darkness where, as he pointed his light up, there should be a ceiling. Ornate lamps seemed to hang, suspended, in the space above; unlit and covered with the dusty handiwork of arachnids. He shuddered. "I want to go now. This has gone on long enough."

Martin scratched at his head under his headphones. "What do you mean?"

Before Stanley could answer, his flashlight died.

"Cripes!" he yelped, despite himself. The room was now plunged into complete black, and he shook his flashlight desperately. Something touched his shoulder, and he almost yelped again until he realized it was just one of the tall candelabras. Feeling closed in, even in the seemingly massive room, he hastily dug into his jacket pocket.

"Mine's done the same thing," he heard Martin say, though he did not sound near as upset by the sudden encroaching darkness. The whirring of Martin's AA kit seemed very loud very suddenly, and he heard Martin breath in sharply.

"Picking up a lot of activity," he stated. "It's getting a lot clearer. I…"

Stanley tried to shut Martin out as, feeling some small tinge of relief, his hand closed over a packet of matches. He had anticipated something like this might happen, just in case of emergency, and had picked these up in the motel lobby earlier that day. He was very pleased with his foresight, and quickly struck a match. The small, bright glow gave him enough of a view to, in turn, attempt to light the ancient wicks on the candelabra besides him. A few tense moments passes, but the wick caught just before the little flame had burned the match down to Stanley's fingers.

"Holy cow." He could hear Martin fumbling in the dark. "It's getting way stronger! I'm starting to hear…"

The room was suddenly lit by candlelight as, without warning, all the candelabras in the room lit themselves. The lamps above flickered to life. The dusty darkness was broken, if only a little, by dozens of tiny, flickering flames.

Before Stanley even had a chance to react to such spookiness, he was caught off guard when an ominous sound reverberated through the air. It was a sound that made his hair stand on end and his skin prickle with goosebumps.

The sound resolved itself into a deep, disembodied voice.

And the voice said, **"Welcome."**

Martin cried out. Stanley, who could see him now in the candle glow, has pulled his head phones off his head and let them hang from his neck, hands rubbing his ears gingerly. His eyes behind his glasses were wide and shocked, and he looked up toward the ceiling that neither of them could see. Stanley was on the verge of bolting from the room, but something stopped him.

"**Well, come in,"** said the voice, almost drolly.

It was Martin who spoke first. "Um…" He gulped, but seemed to regain some measure of composure. At least he wasn't shivering like Stanley suddenly was. "Hello?"

"**Welcome, foolish mortals,"** the voice replied. There was a hint of a chuckle. **"Welcome to the mansion."**

Stanley's brain was working overtime, and being who he was and what he had conditioned himself to do, he jumped to the first obvious conclusion he could grasp.

"Alright, Martin," he said, clapping politely. "Knock it off. It's not funny."

Martin stared at Stanley, surprised. "What?"

"**Hmm?"** mused the voice.

"Seriously." Stanley's fear was becoming anger rapidly. "Not funny. You can stop now. Even I wouldn't use a cliché line like 'Welcome, foolish mortals.' Enough with this."

"**Cliché?"** The voice was amused. It chuckled darkly.

"And you!" Stanley pointed into the shadows, then shook his head and pointed elsewhere. The voice did not seem to come from a particular source. Stanley shrugged. "You, wherever you are. Who are you? One of Martin's paranormal buddies?"

"Stan…" Martin held his hands up, in a vain gesture to try and get his cousin to stop.

"**I,"** boomed the voice, **"am your host. Your…Ghost Host."** Another dark chortle.

"Right," said Stanley slowly. "Ghost Host. Hilarious." Stanley stamped his foot. "But honestly. This is stupid, and I'm leaving." He began to turn to go.

"**Oh, I didn't mean to frighten you prematurely." **The "Ghost Host" sounded apologetic, in a way. **"The real chills come later. And there's no turning back now."**

The candles in the room flickered, and Stanley realized he could not longer see the way back to the hallway. Angrily, he spun around and faced Martin.

Martin was not paying him much attention. He had reached behind him and flicked the switch on his AA. Then he held his mic before him. "Um, hello again, ghost fans! I've just experienced a…A huge surge of paranormal activity. We are in the presence of a spirit calling himself the Ghost Host, and," – he held the mic into the air – "a most gracious host he is, too! Mr. Host, I'm a reporter for Ghoulish Ghosts and Graveyards, the country's leading online radio paranormal investigative experience. Would you mind if I asked a few questions?"

Stanley balked, feeling a small vein pulse in his forehead. Martin didn't give up, did he?

"**Perhaps later,"** replied the disembodied host. **"Now, as they say, look alive. We'll continue our little tour."**

"A tour!" Martin grinned. "Um…Gosh, that would be great!"

"**Very well. A carriage approaches."**

From the rightmost staircase, something dark came swooping down, sending the candles sputtering. It was something smooth, round and black, like some monstrous beetle. The thing glided, with a rush of wind, straight toward Martin. The younger man yelled in fright as he was suddenly swept up into the thing, a sort of demonic clamshell. Then the black object had flown up the opposite staircase and out of sight.

"Martin!" Stanley wasn't sure how, but the idea that this was a hoax was swiftly replaced with the idea that he needed to find out what had happened to his cousin. Even if he was being made a fool of, Stanley had to get to the bottom of this.

And, like the Ghost Host had just said, there was no turning back now.

Legs pumping, Stanley ran up the staircase after the opaque "carriage" that had snatched Martin.

---

The first thing Stanley noticed, upon reaching the second floor and starting down another long corridor, was the wallpaper. It had eyes.

Or it looked like it did. Someone had an active imagination, but Stanley wasn't sure if it was whoever put the wallpaper here or himself, brain fired up with haunted happenings. The wallpaper patterns looked like devilish faces, sneering and leering at him. And though the eyes of the little imp-like faces weren't animated, it gave him the horrible feeling that he was constantly under surveillance.

Stanley slowed as he stepped into the corridor proper. This was an old house, and he would have to tread carefully to avoid hazards. Running wouldn't do any good if he injured himself. He decided to move with caution from here on in.

Thankfully, his flashlight had somehow regained some small vestige of life, although it was very weak. It was enough for him to travel the halls without bumping into things.

Somewhere, he thought he heard the groaning of a rusty hinge.

He jumped when a familiar voice said, **"When hinges creak in doorless chambers."**

Biting his lip, Stanley edged forward, rounding a bend and coming to a sort of hallway intersection. The hall continued forward, but to his right was another corridor. A suit of armor stood at attention against the wall nearby, a silent guardian.

Stanley peered down this hall, lined with doors. It seemed to run on and on into the darkness, offering no end. Halfway down this endless hall, something glittered in the gloom: a candelabra, drifting back and forth in midair.

"**When strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls."**

A shriek: it started somewhere distant, and then seemed to drift along the hall and rush past Stanley. The suit of armor clanked, and the mailed arm that held a lance shifted. Stanley took a step back, heart pounding. If Martin had gone down this hall, he wasn't going to follow. Quickly, he resumed his normal path.

"**Whenever candle lights flicker where the air is deathly still…"**

There was nothing subtle about what was going on, and that was why Stanley was becoming increasingly convinced that, when he reached the end of this, he would find Martin waiting for him with a satisfied smirk on his scruffy face. _Good one, eh cuz?_ He could imagine Martin laughing, and Zoe coming out from some hiding place and joining in. _We really got you good, didn't we?_

Steeled by these thoughts, Stanley marched ahead, flashlight steady. When he found Martin, he would be sure to make it perfectly clear what all this meant to him.

There was weak light ahead, and the sound of rain hitting glass. A flash of lightning; Stanley's dying flashlight went over the demon wallpaper and dingy framed photographs that he could not pause to really look at.

"**That is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight!"**

Another bolt of lightning, and a cacophony of thunder shook the floorboards under Stanley's feet. He emerged from the hall into a dimly-lit conservatory, one wall and part of the ceiling paned glass and rain-slick. Gnarled tree branches tapped on the glass as the wind outside buffeted them. Stanley imagined, if it was brighter, he could look out onto the grounds and possibly see the van. But his attention was more focused on the premature funeral that had been set up in here.

Most of the tiled conservatory floor was occupied by a single wooden coffin, surrounded by drooping and dead potted plants and dry funeral wreaths.

"Oh no," Stanley stated, folding his arms. "I'm not going anywhere near that thing."

"**Suit yourself," **the Ghost Host whispered from close by. **"But many a spirit has been dying to meet you."**

The flashlight finally lost what little juice it had and went dim. The moment it did, something banged loudly on the closed coffin lid from the inside. Stanley hopped back in alarm, and would have bolted right away if he weren't still assured that this was all fake.

More lightning, more thunder. The coffin groaned, wood straining against wood. Scrabbling and a muffled voice issued from inside, but the specific words were lost.

"**This one,"** said the Ghost Host with a laugh, **"can hardly contain himself."**

There was a splintering, rending crack as part of the lid gave. The coffin had been nailed shut, and now said nails were bent and twisted near the top of the coffin. Green light rolled like a fog out of the gap, and as the lid raised a little higher, Stanley saw a pair of boney hands gripping the coffin's lid, straining to push it open.

"Lemme outta here!" grunted a feeble voice. "Lemme outta here!"

Fake or not, Stanley did not want to hang around to see who exactly was on the other side of the coffin.

Caution forgotten, he bolted from the room and into yet another shadowy hallway. Stanley's eyes had adjusted a little to the dark, but that did not stop him from colliding with a door as the hallways turned suddenly. He fell to the floor, cringing. He hadn't hurt himself badly, but he imagined that he'd feel the bruises in the morning. Not to mention he was covered in dust and old cobwebs. Coughing, he dusted himself off as he carefully got to his feet.

This hall did have some light, for the ceiling lamps were lit. Here were doors, lots of doors, running the length of the corridor. Stanley guessed this might be a guest wing, or maybe the servants' quarters. Either way, he had run smack dab into a thick, nearly black oak door at the hall's first bend. It was an artistically interesting door, with a carved lion's face set in the middle.

As Stanley rose, he heard another crack and groan from behind him, and felt a rush of fear. Hurriedly, he reached for the doorknob. The door seemed to have other ideas, because it bulged forward unnaturally. A sighing, growling wheeze emanated from behind the door, and it returned to normal. Then it bulged again, emitting the same sound. It was like the door was alive, like it was breathing.

Stanley fled, and as he did, the other doors in the corridor reacted to his presence. Knocking and banging from behind the doors filled the air. As he passed them in a blur, doorknobs rattled and metal knockers clacked and clanged. Moaning, crying, thrashing; whatever was beyond the doors wanted to get out into the corridor badly.

And the Ghost Host was there, his voice filled with vile satisfaction. **"Unfortunately, they all seem to have trouble getting through."**

The noises were getting louder, the cacophony increasing with each door Stanley ran past. He covered his ears, trying to drown out the frightful sounds. He could not stop, or whatever was in those doors might find him.

But there was hope. He could see, at the end of the corridor, an open doorway. There was no light past it, but it was his only chance. He could run in and shut the door behind him. The pounding, knocking, and growls of things beyond closed doors would be shut out in this dismal hall, where they belonged.

With a burst of adrenaline, he ran through the doorframe, hastily felt a door in the dark, and slammed the door shut. Immediately, the noises ceased.

Stanley sighed with relief, his back against the door. He mopped sweat from his brow and panted. He did not need this. Any of this. Why couldn't Uncle Yale have left him something else? Why did…

"Stan?"

Stanley's nerves nearly shattered when he heard the voice close by. His head snapped up, and he was looking into Martin's concerned face, lit by a candle his cousin held.

"Stanley! Jeeze, I'm glad to see you! I was worried!" Martin looked intensely relieved. "Are you OK? You didn't get picked up by one of those clam-car things, did you?"

Stanley stared blankly at Martin. Then a moment later, he had charged his cousin and, grabbing him by the collar of his Hawaiian shirt, pushed him up against the wall.

"You," growled Stanley, eyes flashing, "have put me through enough! Stop it!"

Martin looked shocked. "What are you…?" He gasped as Stanley gave another hard shove.

"You know damn well!" cried Stanley. "This! All of this was a setup! This is all a horrible conspiracy you set up to freak me out! And the worst part is, its working! I have never questioned my sanity as much as I have in the last few days!" His face was inches away from Martin's. "How long have you had this planned, huh? Did you set this up with your little Goth friend after I got the place?"

"Stan…" Martin pleaded.

"Was Uncle Yale involved? Was he in on this even before he died? What do you people have against me?"

"Stan, please…"

"No! Don't give me anymore of your excuses! You lied to me and put me through this! And I'm not going to be made a fool of by you or anyone-"

Martin decked Stanley in the face. Not very hard, but a good enough right hook to make Stanley let go. The elder cousin stumbled back, clutching his jaw. Martin slumped into a sitting position on the floor, staring at his fist in shock. It took both a minute to regain their respective composures. Silence held for awhile, apart from the ticking of a grandfather clock that stood a little to the left of where Stanley had pinned Martin. The clock, like a lot of the mansion's décor, was strange and eerie. The clock face itself was held in the carved maw of a demon, and the pendulum that swung behind the dusty glass case looked like the demon's forked tongue.

Had they bothered to really study the clock, they would have noticed that it had thirteen hours on its face.

Stanley spoke first. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and he meant it. "I lost control." He felt his jaw, cringed, and smiled weakly. "I needed that."

"You did," replied Martin, not bitterly. "Fear will do that to a person. Believe me, this isn't the first time I've had to punch someone. Just, y'know, not family."

Stanley took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Alright, Martin. You win. You can summon all your friends out of the woodwork and admit you scared me. I was scared. I even believed in all that ghost junk for a second."

Martin quirked an eyebrow. "You still think that? Honestly, dear cousin, I have nothing to do with any of this. Scout's honor."

Stanley felt some of his anger coming back. "You were never a Scout."

Martin picked himself up and dusted himself off. Stanley noticed he wasn't wearing his backpack. "I'm trying to tell you," said Martin, calmly and slowly, "that none of this is my doing. We are in a genuinely, indisputably, one-hundred percent haunted mansion!" He waved his arms to exaggerate the effect. "If I was doing all this to frighten you, I would be a heinous person, and I would hate myself. My passion for the paranormal is based on getting facts, not causing fear."

Stanley grimaced. It had gotten a bit colder in the room, and he patted his arms. "You sure? Because even when we're not here, I've been seeing those three hitchhikers all over the place, and it's scaring the crap out of me. Tell me that isn't a figment of my imagination, huh?"

Martin had an odd expression on his face, something unreadable. "Well, what did these hitchhikers look like?"

"Are you going to act like Freud now?" retorted Stanley. "In this place?"

"I just wanna know, cuz."

Stanley sighed hugely. "Fine, fine. But you have to get this all the make sense to me afterward, alright? I'm still not convinced.

Martin nodded. "I was going to, before you tackled me. Tradeoff."

"Well," Stanley began, "one of 'em's real tall and skinny. He kinda looks like a skeleton, or maybe one of those Peruvian mummies or something. He's got these sunken-in eyes, but they're really big somehow. And he grins a lot. Oh. And he wears a bowler hat."

"Uh huh," said Martin.

"Then there's one that's kinda overweight, and he's got this wide face that gets real big when he smiles. He's got this big top hat and he carries around a carpetbag."

"Uh huh."

"Yeah. And then there's the third one, the little shaggy dwarf with the ball and chain…Oh, this is stupid, Martin!" Stanley stamped his foot. "Why do you want know? So you can admit that that was your doing as well?"

Martin shook his head. He was smiling. "No. 'Cause I want to prove to you ghosts exist."

"We've gone over this before," said Stanley evenly. "And not matter how much hexing, hoaxing and psychological stuff you pull on me, it doesn't change the fact that _ghosts don't exist!_"

"Oh?" replied Martin. "Try telling that to your three friends behind you."

Stanley almost scoffed. He almost said, "Nice try, but I'm not turning around." But at that moment, he saw his dingy reflection in the glass of the grandfather clock, and there was a spectral green-blue glow behind him. And so he turned.

And came face to face with three hitchhiking ghosts.

---

**Hoo boy! Took me long enough to post this. My original intention was to have this up and posted by August 9th (the day the Disneyland Mansion opened its doors 40 years ago), but the website seemed to be having problems and such that day. So...blah. Even so, here it is! I will try to be more prompt with the next chapter!**

**Thanks again to my readers for their feedback! I'm pleased that you thought I did Zoe well, AW. ^^ I'll try to have the next chapter done by September, but we'll see how that goes with my college scheduale.**


	8. Chapter VII

**Chapter VII**

**---**

If the human jaw had the capacity to, from a standing position, hit floors, Stanley's would have.

The three apparitions before him were, no doubt, really there. No Pepper's Ghost effect was so convincing; no complicated holograms or laser projections could produce something similar. There was a quality to their ethereal substance that, though somehow familiar, had never been replicated. Through their pale green and blue forms, Stanley could see the door he had shut moments before.

He stared at the ghosts, and the ghosts, in turn, stared back. The middle figure, Skinny, had his arms folded and was grinning with mirth.

"Whassa matter with you?" inquired the spirit. He titled his head to one side and bemusedly raised one hairless eyebrow. "Cat got your tongue?"

It took some doing for Stanley to wrap his mind this question.

"You…" Stanley tried to find the words. Not really thinking, not really sure what to make of the situation, he blurted out, "You're not real."

The three ghosts collectively rolled their eyes. Top Hat's pudgy face fell into a frown. "You've got to be kidding me," he said. "We're standing right in front of him, in the flesh…Oh. Wait." He looked dejectedly at his spectral shoes.

Skinny tilted his bowler hat to the side, exposing some thin, wiry hairs on his sparse and knobby head. "Yep. As skeptic-y a skeptic as they come." Cackling, he offered a thin, gnarled and transparent hand. "Hate to break it to you, pal, but we're occupying the same plane of existence as you."

"We're so real, we're surreal!" chimed Top Hat.

Stanley stared at the hand thickly, and after a moment of unconscious consideration, he cautiously extended his own hand – rather than shake, he had his index finger out and poked at the spirit's palm. The finger passed right through, and it felt as cold as if he had just stuck his hand into a frigid fog. He pulled it away quickly.

"No way," he murmured, still in shock.

Skinny looked at Top Hat, and they both nodded grimly.

"You gotta work hard to crack this sort." said Skinny. He glanced down at the shortest of the three. "Care to do the honors, Gus?"

The dwarf, who was absently picking his nose, hastily pulled his finger free and nodded. Then, without warning, he picked up his ball and chain and dropped the weighty end on Stanley's foot.

Stanley, who had been expecting another blast of cold, instead was unpleasantly surprised by the very painful sensation of a heavy metal object being dropped on his toes. Howling in pain and letting words fly that would have made his mother cringe, he hopped up and down on his uninjured foot. Martin, watching from the sidelines silently, had to scrunch up his face to keep from laughing.

"Smarts, don't it?" mocked Skinny. The three phantoms drifted closer to Stanley, who had to catch himself against a wall to keep from toppling over. "Now that we got that settled, how about you greet us like proper souls?"

Blinking through some pained tears, Stanley looked at the faces of the three ghosts. Then he looked through their faces, toward Martin.

"So you see them too?"

Martin nodded.

"Oh Cripes," moaned Stanley, and he dragged a hand across his face, feeling weary and battered. "Alright, alright already! I was wrong. Ghosts exit. I'm staring at three of them right now!"

And then, having said so, having admitted aloud that he might have been wrong to do, he realized it wasn't so hard to do. Just letting go of his foundational, rational belief about the afterlife seemed so simple: not when confronted with these circumstances.

Not that it was a good realization. But it worked for the time being.

"Much better!" laughed Skinny. "The first step is admitting there's nothing wrong with your head. Feel better?"

"Not really," said Stanley.

"I have just the thing for that!" cried Top Hat. He thrust his carpetbag forward, set the ethereal item on the floor, snapped it open and started rummaging through it. "I know it's in here somewhere. I have loads of anti-depressants, remedies, elixirs…"

"Save it for later, Phinny," said Skinny. "Introductions are in order."

"Oh shucks," grumbled Top Hat. He reluctantly closed the bag. Martin and Stanley looked on, both lost in their own way.

Skinny cleared his throat. "Right. Took us long enough to do it, too." He tipped his hat and waggled his eyebrows. "I'm Ezra. Ezra Dobbins, but most folks just call me Ezra. I'm not one for formalities, though I am the leader of this outfit."

"Says you," muttered Top Hat. He smiled and tipped his tall hat to the cousins. "Phineous Queeg at your service, gentlemen. My associate here fails to mention my incredible alchemical skills and general know-how that have come to help us time and time again. Credit where credit is due, Ezra."

Ezra glared at the stouter ghost. "Oh yeah? And who's the one with all the good ideas?"

"Gus, probably," replied Phineous simply, nodding toward the dwarf. The spirit called Gus, who was now balanced on top of his ball, bare feet poking out from the bottom of his long smock, nodded sagely.

Ezra snorted. "Show-off…Anyway, this here's Gus. Just Gus. He doesn't talk much, so don't expect any good conversations with this guy." At this, Gus nodded again.

Now, with names to apply to the faces, Stanley remembered his previous so-called encounters with these ghouls. "You were following us," he said flatly. Flatly was the only tone that seemed to work.

The trio collectively smirked (though it was hard to tell through Gus' thick beard). Phineous said, "Well, not following intentionally, per-se…"

"We hitched a ride," cackled Ezra, striking a hitchhiker's pose with his thumb out. "And since most people these days won't pick up hitchhikers, we sort of hopped in when we could. It was nice little jaunt, too! Haven't seen good ol' New Orleans since the 1800s!"

Stanley stepped around the ghosts (he could have walked through them, but decided that might be a step too far for his own mind) and approached Martin. "Hold on, hold on, hold on," he said rapidly, shaking his head. He took a deep, steady breath and let it out with a shuddering sigh. "OK. Slowly…Martin, if you can see them now, how come you couldn't see them before?"

Martin smirked his trademark smirk. "That's what I wanted to tell you! After I got swept away, I got carried down here and into the next room down the hall. You've gotta check this out, Stanley! I came out here looking for you when I got word you were coming."

At this, Stanley craned his head and stared past the grandfather clock. The hall ended abruptly at another door, thankfully not horribly animated like the ones out in the corridor. "Word?" asked Stanley. "The Ghost Host told you?"

The hitchhikers collectively frowned. "Oh," said Phineous. "You've met Leota then, haven't you?"

"That's right," replied Martin. He looked at the ghostly trio thoughtfully. "Why? Is that a bad thing?"

Ezra shook his head. "I dunno. Leota's not that fond of us three, for some weird reason." He turned to his companions. "Can you think of any good reason we should be disliked?"

"You did try to steal her crystal ball once," stated Phineous simply. "She put a hex on you that made you yowl like a cat every time you opened your mouth, remember?"

Gus nodded.

Ezra folded his arms huffily, but he could barely hide his ghoulish smirk. "No one's perfect, Phinny old pal."

"Either way," interjected Stanley, rounding on the spirits, "there's still a whole lot going on that no one's telling me. And I have a right to know!" He patted the deed in his shirt pocket, just to remind himself who really ought to be in charge, but was instead completely lost.

Martin put a hand on Stanley's shoulder, which the elder cousin shrugged away. "Then you should meet Madame Leota," he said reassuringly. "She told me that she'd answer all our questions once you got here."

"Good," said Stanley shortly, and he marched forward toward the door. "She had better, whoever she is. Because I think I'm on the edge of losing my mind." He felt he meant it, too.

The hitchhikers watched him with bewilderment. Ezra floated up beside Martin and nudged him with his elbow (the gesture simply passed through Martin and made his teeth chatter). "Has he always been like this?" he asked.

"Not always," said Martin, chuckling lightly. "He's had a rough night, though."

---

Beyond the door was a room that, in a way, reminded Stanley of the massive black chamber downstairs. Shadows hung heavy in this room, as did the smell of old incense and dust. Where darkness was not draped, there were cobwebs or faded, silky curtains. They clung to the walls and gave the space the appearance of some darkened gypsy tent.

Adding to this was the round table in the center of the room, where a dozen arranged candles pushed away the encroaching gloom. A softly-glowing orb sat on a pedestal in the middle of the table, slightly bigger than a basketball. Stanley hesitantly drew closer, feeling strangely compelled to do so. He grunted in pain as he bumped into a stand set up beside the table, upon which rested a heavy and ancient-looking book.

"Watch your step," said Martin from the doorway. Candle held before him, he walked into the room with careful precision. "Same thing happened to me earlier."

Behind him, Ezra, Phineous and Gus poked their heads around the doorway cautiously. "You think she's still mad?" whispered Ezra. Being the tallest, he peered down at his companions. Phineous said nothing. Gus shrugged and, hefting his ball and chain in one hand, glided into the room, feet a few inches above the floor. Ezra and Phineous nodded, and followed the midget ghost inside.

Stanley, rubbing his chest where he'd bumped the stand, focused on the table again. The orb – a crystal ball, to be precise – seemed to be radiating its own inner light, and pearly, glittering mist swirled around inside. Beyond this, a high-backed chair sat before the table; empty, apart from Martin's rumpled backpack sitting in it, whirring quietly.

"Nifty séance parlor, huh cuz?" said Martin, like he was discussing the weather. He crossed the room and grabbed his backpack out of the chair. "I've been in several haunted houses, but none of them had a room set aside just for clairvoyance."

Half-listening, Stanley's gaze fell on the book. The page the thick tome was open to had archaic script, fancy and neat. The page before him read: _A Spell to Bring to Your Eyes and Ears One who is Bound in Limbo_. Below this were some strange words which, an hour ago, Stanley would have put no stock into.

Once more, he felt unsettled, like some unseen force was watching his every move. "So where is this Leota person?" he asked Martin. Then he added, "Or is she a ghost too?"

A flutter of wings and a blast of air on top of Stanley's head made him duck. A glossy, ebony shape swept overhead and perched on the back of the empty chair. It was a crow - or a raven, Stanley considered, which would be perfectly and fitting. The bird puffed out its feathers and stared down its beak at him; a stuffy avian undertaker with glowing red eyes.

Wait…Crows (or ravens) eyes usually weren't red. And they didn't glow.

"Caw!" croaked the bird. "The spell! The spell! Say the words! Caw! Call her forth!"

And now it was talking.

Stanley heaved a huge sigh, feeling his head swim a little. Might as well toss aside all reason by this point. Anything was possible now.

He scanned the book in front of him, mouthing the words before his voice wrapped around them: "_Kree kroo, vergo geba, kalto kree._"

A terrific thunderclap shook the room the moment the last word had left his lips. Perhaps it was the storm outside, but Stanley saw a tongue of lightning arch through the mist in the crystal ball. It twisted, glittered, and suddenly coalesced into a human face; the face of a fair young woman.

Her eyes fluttered open, revealing iris so startlingly green they might put emeralds to shame. Those eyes looked up at Stanley through foggy strands that might have been her hair, and she smiled a soft, knowing smile.

"Well well," she said, and her voice reverberated out from the crystal ball like the echoes in a cathedral. "Good evening to you."

Stanley just stared numbly at the face beyond the glass.

The woman's brow wrinkled. "I am Madame Leota, Seer of All. And you, unless I miss my guess, would be Stanley. Correct?"

Stanley blinked. How do you reply to a talking disembodied head in a glass orb? He struggled for words. "How…How did you know I was coming?"

"Caw!" The raven danced back and forth on its talons, wings spread. "Madame Leota sees all! Get it? Caw!"

"Not this time, Edgar," Leota corrected, her head rotating to face the bird. Then she looked at Martin. "It was this charming cousin of yours who informed me of your impending arrival, among other things."

Stanley glowered at Martin, but the younger cousin simply smiled weakly and shrugged, and went to fiddling with his backpack.

"I felt your presence the night prior," she continued. "You have a powerful aura about you, though I sense you do not realize this yourself. And it doesn't take a psychic to realize you are deeply troubled, and have many questions."

Stanley scoffed. "You bet your…" He paused, looking around the sides of the crystal ball and then, just to make sure, peered under the table. Apart from cobwebs and gloom, there was nothing else down there.

The Madame rolled her eyes. "I see we're going to have a lot to deal with." She shot a quick, irritated glance in the direction of the hitchhikers. "And what are you morons doing here?"

"Hey!" retorted Ezra, clapping Phineous on the shoulder. "Watch what you say! You might offend someone!"

Phineous shrugged Ezra's hand off and tipped his hat to the spirit medium. "Sorry to be a bother, ma'am. We're just giving these folks a tour of the place."

"Isn't that why there's a Ghost Host?" asked Martin suddenly. "Oh. And give me a sec' to get my recording stuff in gear. Is it alright if I get an interview with you, Madame?"

Stanley seethed. He was exhausted, creeped out and had just been through one reality-shattering event after the next, and right now he just wanted everyone to give him some space. Just as he was opening his mouth to say so, Leota spoke for him.

"If you would all be so kind," she said, "I believe Mr. Vine would prefer to have this conversation in private." She smiled at Stanley. "Is that right?"

Great; she could probably read his thoughts too. Still, for a disembodied head in a crystal ball, she seemed to be polite and friendly. And he got the sense she would give him strait facts. So he nodded wordlessly, and offered Martin an apologetic look.

"Very well," chimed Leota. The black bird on the vacant chair croaked and gave the hitchhikers a baleful look, and they took the hit and slowly back out of the chamber. Martin hitched up his backpack, gave Stanley an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and followed the other ghosts out. A moment later, the door slammed shut on its own accord, the sound echoing hollowly.

Leota turned to the bird. "Edgar, watch the door and make sure no one's eavesdropping. I don't trust those three ghouls."

"Caw! You betcha, Madame!" Edgar took wing and deftly landed on the doorknob, talons scraping the brass. The bird worked its head around with the dexterity only birds have and peered through the inset keyhole.

"He's a good familiar, really." The misty face of the Madame beamed. "He'll make sure we're not disturbed. Now, what would you care to ask?"

At this, Stanley hadn't a clue where to start. There were so many things he was confused about. At a loss, he shook his head.

"Would you prefer I posed your questions for you?" asked Leota.

"I'd rather you didn't," sighed Stanley. "I don't like the idea of my mind being paged through."

"It's more like sensing the aura of thoughts around you, not peering into your head." The spectral medium smiled softly. "I am only trying to help you, Stanley. Coming to terms with the spirit world when you have been a skeptic so long must be hard, but I sense…" –she hesitated– "I sense that you have not always felt this way."

Stanley looked squarely into the Madame's eyes. "When I was a kid, maybe," he said. "I'd argue about it now, but...What can I say? I'm looking at a ghost right now. That in itself should be enough."

"Yet," said Leota, "you still hesitate. There's some trauma buried deep within you in relation to spirits, and you have ignored and avoided this fact for some time. This is what I sense from you."

He wanted to argue, but the Madame made a point that gave Stanley pause. Somehow, he knew she was right.

Leota, undoubtedly noticing his bewilderment, continued. "You will have time to come to terms with this in due course, for I predict you will be with us for a while longer."

"Yeah," said Stanley, almost blankly. He shook his head. "Uh, I mean, look. No offense or anything, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to share my new place with a bunch of dead people."

"New place?" Leota raised a ghostly eyebrow.

"That's right." Stanley, now feeling emboldened, produced the deed he had been carrying with him since the beginning of this insane venture from his pocket, holding it before the crystal ball. "According to this, I'm the new owner of this ma-"

"Shh!" Leota looked left and right nervously, the mist around her swirling agitatedly. Stanley took a step back, unsure of what was happening.

"Put it away," whispered the medium's spirit. "You must be extremely careful with that thing."

"Why's that?"

"There are other souls in this house that will not take kindly to the idea that a mortal owns the deed. I can tell it is authentic, and that puts you in danger."

Stanley, despite himself, felt a lump in his throat. "Danger?"

Leota's stare became hard and very serious. "Just keep it out of sight, and don't go around claiming your ownership of this place. You may have the deed, but this mansion is under the control of us spirits, in particular your host."

"The Ghost Host?"

"He is the lord and master of this haunted realm, and will take any measures to ensure things stay that way. With that deed, you represent a threat to him."

Stanley scowled. "I'm not here to threaten anyone, living or dead! I just came here to check the place out!" And then a thought occurred to him. "Wait. I got this from my great uncle. He left the place to me after he died. That makes me the heir, right?"

"That is why this is troubling," said Leota gravely. "The deed to the house was stolen almost a hundred years ago."

Stanley, nerves already shot as he was, was shocked by this revelation. "Stolen?" he repeated, realizing just how stupid he sounded.

"I'm afraid so," replied Leota with a sigh. "As you can imagine, your Ghost Host has long held a grudge against the culprit. He feels this house has always been his right, even in death. Yet you possess the deed, which has more power than you can possibly imagine."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," explained the Madame, "that despite whatever means you acquired the deed, you are still the only living being to possess it. Thus, you are still the owner of the mansion. Theft or not, this place technically belongs to you."

Stanley blinked, trying to take it in. "Um, yeah. I understand that, I guess. What I _don't_ understand is why I need to be so secretive. Can't I just give the deed to you ghosts and be done with it? I didn't ask for a haunted mansion!"

"It's not that simple, Stanley. You're the last living heir to the Gracey Estate, as deemed by that deed. There is a supernatural power unintentionally bound with that deed; you might call it a curse; you might call it a blessing. Either way, as long as you are living, the mansion is yours, and now power can take that away from you. It happened the moment you crossed the threshold of this possessed manor, and there's no backing out of it."

The pit of Stanley's stomach suddenly dropped away. He felt sick. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on a sec. You mean I'm stuck? I can't leave?"

Leota blinked, than she laughed, the crystal ball rattling on its stand as she did. "Oh goodness no! Did I make it sound that dire? I'm sorry. What I meant was that we can't undo you owning the place. As of now, you're in charge…And that's where we have a problem. You don't get any special powers from it, just that fact. And the master of the house won't like that. If he were to discover this…"

As much as Stanley liked the idea that someone acknowledged his legal right to the place, the last statement made his skin prickle. "What should I do, then?" he asked.

"Lay low," said Leota. "Keep this knowledge to yourself, and continue on as a guest. This will give you a chance to learn more about the mansion and its residents. Your Ghost Host is a presence that can be felt all over the mansion, but there are two places he will not enter. One of them is this séance parlor, for he may only be here at my consent. You're welcome to come here and speak with me anytime without fear of being overheard."

Stanley was feeling rapidly overwhelmed once again. Revelations about ghosts were one thing; now he had the burden of some ancient custody battle on his shoulders. This was entirely too much for one night!

Another question among the vast multitude of questions he had popped up. "What's the other place?"

"Erm, oh dear!" Leota appeared distracted very suddenly, and Stanley got a vague idea she was avoiding his question. "I can feel the whirl of confusion in your head, you poor soul. You need rest and time to get your bearings. And besides, your host will be wondering why I've kept you so long, and he'll be expecting you." She smiled a friendly smile that, oddly, seemed to calm Stanley a little. "I think it best we meet again later, when you have had a chance to gather your thoughts. Sound good?"

Stanley stared for a moment, than nodded.

There was a startled screech from Leota's raven familiar as the door to the room swung open. Edgar flapped back across the room and took his perch on the high-backed chair. A moment later, Martin and the hitchhikers poked their heads through the doorway.

"All clear?" asked Martin. He had a positive glow to him that made Stanley feel queasy. Even so, Stanley nodded and the four made their way to him.

"How'd it go?" inquired Phineous. "Seems like you took an age-and-a-half to gab in here!"

"Not that you care what we did," chortled Ezra. "_We_ are going to be radio stars! Marty here wants an interview with us! Snazzy, eh?"

Martin chuckled and looked from Stanley to Leota. "So, uh, did you two get some things figured out?"

Stanley was going to say something along the lines of No, this place is a madhouse and I'm losing my mind. But once again, the spectral woman in the crystal ball beat him to it. "Some things, but there are still many more things to be discovered," she said mysteriously, a smirk on her face. "Meanwhile, your tour must continue. You'll find your exit on the other side of the parlor." Right on cue, a previously-unseen door opened amidst the gloom, allowing candlelight and what sounded like distant music into the room.

"Great!" Martin grinned and made for the door, pausing to hastily bob his head to Leota. "Oh. Madame, thanks for all your help. Maybe later I can still get that interview with you?"

The disembodied spirit smiled her alluring smile. "I would be more than happy to, Martin. For now, watch out for your cousin. He will need your help and friendship."

Stanley, still somewhat edgy, managed to look Martin in the eye and nod. He wasn't sure what the nod meant, but he felt it was a good gesture. Martin returned the nod, and then Stanley faced Leota.

"Thanks," he said simply. "I'll, uh, talk to you later, I guess?"

"Indeed," she said brightly. "Then I shall be expecting you. Until then, take care of yourself. I predict you will have a great effect on the spirits who lurk in these haunted halls."

"Caw," croaked Edgar. "The Madame has spoken! Caw! Now amscray, you goons! The Madame needs her meditation!"

Leota glowered at Edgar but said nothing. Still wondering, and still feeling as lost as before, Stanley was ushered out of the room by Martin, the three hitchhikers following close behind.

---

"**Ah…There you are. And just in time. The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations, and are beginning to materialize."**

Stanley shuddered. The Ghost Host spoke the moment they had exited the séance room, and he hadn't remembered just how eerie the disembodied voice was. They were now standing on a balcony overlooking a huge ballroom. And Stanley was only distracted by the voice for a moment before he really got a look at the ballroom floor, because the entire room was full of ghosts.

He blinked, trying to take this new astounding-yet-terrifying sight in. His eyes had adjusted to the dark of the séance parlor, so he had been surprised by how bright and active the ballroom was. There were ghosts everywhere – ghosts seated at the long dining table, laughing and toasting with solid drinking cups held in their see-through hands; ghosts flying in through the rain-pattered grand windows as lightning flashed outside; ghosts swaying drunkenly from the two great chandeliers high above the floor; ghostly couples that waltzed on the open dance floor, spinning to the discordant melody wheezing out of a ancient pipe organ. There were even tiny, wispy spirits emerging from the pipes of the organ, as the phantom organist played havoc over the keys.

Stanley's mouth hung agape as he watched the macabre revelry below. Martin too seemed lost for words, and he and Stanley mirrored each other's expressions perfectly – much to the amusement of the hitchhikers.

"Yep! That's some party!" Ezra rubbed his bony hands together. "And would you believe there's always some sort of shindig that happens here every night?"

"Some souls just can't get enough fun," agreed Phineous. "That, or they're just repeating the last thing they did before they passed on. Can't say I blame them."

Gus simply nodded, sticking his shaggy head between the balcony railings to get a better look.

Stanley, whose eye had been drawn to red-headed woman at the end of the table about to blow the candles out on a moldering birthday cake, turned and glared at the ghostly trio. "Is there a reason you three are still following us?"

Ezra grinned and wrapped a bony arm around Stanley's shoulders (which Stanley recoiled from and passed through, which made his teeth chatter). "What, you don't like us? We're the welcoming committee! Someone's got to keep an eye on you poor mortals, or who knows what might happen! We have nothing but your best interests at heart."

"Plus we don't have anything better to do," added Phineous.

Gus grunted in agreement.

"This is…incredible!" exclaimed Martin, in happy awe. "I've never seen this many ghosts in one place!"

"**Naturally,"** said the Ghost Host from somewhere close by, making Stanley jump. **"There are several prominent ghosts who have retired here, from creepy old crypts all over the world."**

It was getting very disconcerting, not knowing where the eerie voice was coming from. Stanley said, "What, is this place some sort of retirement home for the dead? How many ghosts do you have here? A hundred?"

"**Actually,"** explained the Ghost Host, **"we have 999 happy haunts here. But there's room for a thousand…Any volunteers?"**

---

**As promised, foolish mortals, I have the most recent chapter up and posted on this most auspicious of nights...**

**I speak, of course, of the revelries that are happening tonight at a the Disneyland Haunted Mansion. Tonight being that rare date of 9/9/09, its only fitting they celebrate the 40th tonight. Sadly, I could not attend the event, but I shall be with everyone there in spirit (pun intended). Here's hoping those who got to experience the event had a good time!**

**As always, much thanks for the feedback and kind words. Really, it's you guys that help keep my drive up to finish this. Knowing people are enjoying what I have to offer is always a plus.**

**So, until next time...Have a good night.  
**


	9. Chapter VIII

**Chapter VIII**

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* * *

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Stanley woke, and the first thing that occurred to him was what an awful dream he had just had.

Really, how could any of that have truly happened? All that stuff about talking to hitchhiking ghouls, a head in a crystal ball, and a mansion stuffed to the rafters with ghosts…Utterly ridiculous!

But now, as the sunlight streamed into his room and past the dusty, moth-eaten bed curtains surrounding him, he could…

Wait a moment.

He sat up, and the happy moment of denial was gone in an instant. He was lying amidst the ornate bedclothes in a canopy bed, and beyond the purple curtains he could see the faded floral-patterns of the wallpaper – no one in his era would dare put up something so tacky, thus confirming he was still in the mansion.

Groaning, Stanley rubbed his temples so hard he almost hurt himself. His throat was dry, and his mind still groggy from sleep. The last thing he remembered was the Ghost Host saying the house had some ridiculous number of ghosts residing in it, and then…

He didn't know. Somehow he had ended up here. He really could not deny what he had bore witness to; his perception of reality was still upside-down and probably spinning in circles for good measure. There were ghosts, yes. He couldn't deny it anymore. He had seen too much to dismiss their existence any longer.

Not to mention there was a small, semi-transparent face peering at him near the foot of the bed.

Oddly, he remained calm and simply observed the spirit. Though he could only see the top half of a head and two small hands, he could tell this was an apparition of a little girl. Her eyes were a hazel sort of color, distinguished amidst the blue-green of her ghostly form. He could even pick out the darker spots of freckles near her nose.

They stared at each other - ethereal being and rattled skeptic – for a long moment. Finally, Stanley cleared his throat and said hoarsely, "Hi."

The girl shrank back a little, ducking lower so only the very top of her head could be seen. Ever so slowly, though, she poked her head back up to look at him. Despite himself, Stanley smiled. Ghost or no, she was sort of adorable.

"It's alright," he said. "I don't bite."

The girl blinked, than carefully rose upward. Stanley saw that she was actually levitating. The ghost, now that he could see her more clearly, looked hardly older than five. She was incredibly small, dressed in a sort of formal gown, with dark hair going down past her shoulders. She drifted down until her bare transparent feet were touching the bed and stopped, eyeing Stanley nervously.

Stanley pulled his feet in a little closer to himself, suddenly feeling nervous himself. The part of his brain that was nagging him that he was nuts had switched over to the rationale that this spirit might be dangerous; one must never underestimate the unknown, even if that unknown is a tiny phantom that seems just as on-edge.

"Hello," said the girl, in a tiny voice to match her form. "Um, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't wake you."

Stanley sat up straighter, realizing he was still wearing the same clothes as the night before. "I don't think you did," he said, yawning mid-sentence. "Gosh, what happened last night? How did I get here?"

"You fainted," replied the ghost girl, and there was no hiding the mischievous smirk that flickered briefly across her face. "Your friends brought you in here to rest."

"Oh, that's good." Stanley stretched, and only then did it dawn on him where he was and just how many questions he had. He clambered out of bed, untangling himself awkwardly from the thick covers, and crossed to the dirty window. The sky outside, from what he could see through the bare tree branches, was a clear blue, broken here and there by dark masses of cloud left over from the storm. Below and through the trees, Stanley could see crumbling stone monuments amidst the muddy earth; a cemetery.

The ghost girl watched him curiously. "I heard you had a bad night, so I wanted to come and wish you a good morning."

Stanley turned, running a hand through his hair (it was tangled mess by this point). Again came the tumult of emotions. He wasn't angry, per-se; he was still too tired for that. "Lost" was probably the best way to describe it. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

It was a new day, and he would take things slowly, one thing at a time.

He said, "So, who are you supposed to be?"

"Lil," said the girl shyly. "It's short for Lillian. I'm your, uh, 'ghostess,' I suppose." She giggled.

Stanley smiled. "Ghostess, eh? How old are you?"

He saw this was a bad question to pose, because she looked downcast. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"I died when I was ten," muttered Lil. She smiled weakly, but it was a sad one. "I've been a ghost for a long time, though."

"Ten? I thought you were younger."

"That happens a lot," the ghost sighed. She sat down, little legs dangling off the edge of the bed. As she swayed them back and forth, they passed through the bed frame. "I'm short for my age."

Stanley felt insensitive, in a weird way – how did one get used to conversing with a dead person? "Sorry."

"It's ok," replied Lil. She floated off the bed and settled onto the floor, now smiling. "I'm, uh, supposed to show you around some more. Ready to go?"

"Huh? Already?"

Lil nodded. "Yep. You didn't get to finish it last night. The Master asked me to give you the tour during the day, after you woke up."

By "Master," Stanley assumed she meant the disembodied Ghost Host. Thinking about poking around the mansion more did intrigue him a bit, but his wounded skepticism in the supernatural still stubbornly clung on. Even when there was no denying the existence of the undead, he did not have a huge desire to go mingling with a multitude of them right now. And the whole place seemed to be jammed with wraiths.

Stanley's stomach, which growled loud enough the both he and the ghost girl noticed, made the decision for him. He chuckled weakly. "Can I get something to eat first?"

Lil giggled. "Sure. I'll take you to the kitchen." That said, she floated over to a large wardrobe on the opposite wall, pulled open the oak doors and stuck her head into the dusty space beyond. The wardrobe was empty, but Lil fumbled about inside for a moment and, with a loud click, the back of the wardrobe opened inward into darkness.

Stanley stared. This place really was full of all the haunted house clichés. "A secret passage?"

"Yep!" said Lil brightly. She floated a little ways in, her ethereal form giving off a blue glow that faintly illuminated the walls. "This is the fun way to go…Uh, if you want to go this way, that is."

"I dunno." Stanley stood fully, walked over to the wardrobe and peered into the shadows – right through Lil's essence. "This doesn't lead to Narnia, does it?"

He laughed at his own joke, but saw the ghost girl's confused look. "Nevermind," he said. "Can't we just go the normal way?"

"We could," replied Lil, "but this is a shortcut."

Stanley felt his hunger claw at him again, and that made up his mind. He carefully stepped into the wardrobe and followed Lil as she began to drift down the narrow, cramped tunnel. Lil's ethereal glow acted like a torch, lighting Stanley's way. The walls were bare masonry and wood back here, and he could smell the dust and mildew. Old cobwebs, so old that the spiders who made them were likely long dead, filled much of the space, and Stanley had to bat the desiccated threads aside as he shimmied down the passage.

"So what's the deal with these passages, anyway?" asked Stanley, as the corridor took a sudden left and descended a flight of narrow steps that creaked when he set foot on them.

Lil spun round to face him, floating backwards with ease. "Oh, we used them for servant passages back in my time, but I don't know what they were for before that."

Stanley hesitated to ask. "When…When was that, exactly?"

"The 1860s," she answered matter-of-factly. "I died in 1869." And without prodding (not that Stanley would have) she added, "It was a little, uh, surprising." She managed a weak, almost embarrassed smile before turning back down the corridor.

Stanley simply set his jaw and kept shuffling through the dark.

Thankfully, only a few moments passed before the ghost girl paused at a section of wall that was solid wood. She passed through it effortlessly, and a second later the wall opened with a click. Stanley crawled through and found himself in an empty pantry, looking out into a kitchen that had clearly seen better days. Frayed and ancient floral curtains had been pulled away from the dusty windows to allow daylight into the room.

"Morning!" This came from Martin, seated at the round kitchen table. There was a plate of pancakes in front of him. He waved energetically as Stanley stepped out of the pantry, but his eyes were red-rimmed and tired. "Glad to see you're doing alright, cuz. You hungry?"

Typical Martin. Stanley nodded and set himself to move to the table, but was distracted by an odd sight: an antique wood-burning stove, tucked in next to the pantry he'd just exited, and a frying pan suspended in midair just above it. As he watched, feeling the heat of the stove, the frying pan flipped a pancake into the air, caught it again, and settled onto the stovetop.

Stanley gulped. "Yeah. Starved." He practically fell into a chair, which pulled itself away from the table for him; Lil giggled as she materialized again. Stanley almost wanted to laugh himself, but what came out was a hiccup.

Martin smiled and took a bite of his breakfast. "There's a whole larder downstairs. Lots of the food there is still well-preserved. Must be the cold air. Anyway, how are you feeling this morning?"

Stanley thought about it.

"Like I've been put through a psychological wringer." He looked from cousin to apparition-of-small-girl and sighed. "This is gonna take some getting used to."

"Yeah," replied Martin. "Look, I'm sorry. I mean, I knew this place was haunted, but I didn't expect…quite this many phantoms."

A plate and silverware had set themselves on the table in front of Stanley. They were old, probably antiques, but at least they were clean. Stanley looked at Lil questioningly.

"Poltergeist," she said. "It likes to haunt the kitchen. Don't worry. It's just a little shy."

"Not to mention a good cook," chuckled Martin. "My compliments to our unseen chef!" He raised his fork in salute to the frying pan, and the pan gave a little flourish as it tossed the flapjack.

"Anyhow," Martin continued, "I can't say I understand what you're going through, but I feel for you."

It wasn't very comforting to Stanley, but it did help a little. "So what did I miss last night?"

"Lots," said Martin. "Mind, I cut my tour short to get some sleep – it didn't help that I hardly got any sleep, I'm so excited - but I got a pretty good lay of the property after we found a safe place for you."

Stanley nodded, than fixed his attention on Lil. "So between the two of you, you can give me some straight answers?"

Ghost and mortal shared a look between them. "We could try," said Martin hopefully.

"Finally." Stanley breathed – he'd been preparing for this, and now it was a matter of getting them all out one at a time. First, he turned to Lil. "Alright…Why are you here?"

Lil looked puzzled. "Pardon?"

"You. I mean, why are you a…Well, you know. A ghost and all."

Even as he knew it was a callous question, it had worked its way to the forefront of Stanley's mind. Thankfully, Lil seemed undaunted with it. "To be honest, I don't know."

Stanley blinked. "Um…" he said.

"It's weird, I know," Lil continued. "It's like waking up one morning and realizing that you've forgotten something really important the night before. For me, its not having a body anymore. I know I'm still me, just…floatier." She giggled and did a midair summersault.

"But you don't know," pressed Stanley, "why you're still here?"

The young apparition frowned. "No. I remember dying, and then I was…somewhere else for a little while. A strange place. There were lots of spirits there, wherever it was. Next thing I knew, I was like this."

"Take from a ghost hunter," Martin added, "but from what I've seen, most ghosts don't know what keeps them tied to this plane. There's lots of different theories, but nothing concrete."

Lil nodded. "All I know is that some people I knew in life aren't here, and some are. Most of the people that die here on the mansion grounds end up coming back, though."

_So much for a life-changing answer,_ thought Stanley with some disappointment. He was expecting to at least learn some great mystery of the afterlife or a hint at the nature of the universe, and all this confirmed was that the dead were just as clueless as the living.

But, he had to admit, there was a small comfort in knowing there was life after death, even if it was as a spook.

"Do you think Madame Leota would know more about, erm, that part of it?" he ventured.

"Oh definitely," said Lil, and she brightened. "She can tell you just about anything, if you ask her nicely."

Well that was a good sign. He'd make sure to go speak to the Madame later, get some more facts straight. But speaking of which…

"Okay, so if that's the case, why are so many ghosts here? Right before I passed out, the Ghost Host said there were…" Stanley paused, tried to recall the number.

"999 of us," finished Lil helpfully.

Stanley almost choked on the first bit of pancake he was chewing. "_That _many? What is this, the Murder Mansion?"

Martin stepped in. "Ah. That's the part of the tour you missed. Our host explained that this is sort've a…halfway house for the undead. Not all the spirits haunting this mansion are local."

"Yep," said Lil. "Most of the ghosts here are dislocated spirits from crypts and tombs all over the place! They come here because they have nowhere else to go."

"How does that work?" ventured Stanley.

"Well, it's like this," said Martin. "You work in the construction field, right?"

"Highways, yeah," replied Stanley.

"Exactly. And think about all the old houses and buildings that have been demolished to make room for new constructions, like highways. What do you suppose happens when a place like that is haunted?"

Stanley shrugged. "I never thought about it before."

"It means there are a lot of misplaced ghosts floating around," said Martin. "And a ghost needs somewhere to haunt."

Lil nodded. "We're one of the few haunted places on Earth that opens its doors to all wayward souls, living or dead." She spoke as if reciting lines from memory. "All are welcome to come in and settle their bones here at the Gracey Mansion…That's why we're all so happy you're here! We don't often get mortals visiting."

Stanley chewed his food thoughtfully, letting this fact settle in. "So this is basically a retirement home for ghosts?"

"You could say that," said Martin. "Thing that confuses me is, from my experience, ghosts usually have a psychic link to the spot they haunt. It's supposed to keep them bound there." He looked hopefully at Lil. "How is it that they all get here?"

"I dunno," she said, embarrassed. "I never had to move anywhere. You might have to ask one of the ghosts that came from the outside, or Madame Leota."

"I'll keep that in mind," muttered Stanley. He took a moment to eat his food, which was surprisingly good, if a little dry. Every answer he got raised more questions. It was clearly going to take him awhile to really pin down what was going on here.

"OK," he said. "Next question: what's the deal with the Ghost Host? Who is he?"

Lil's reaction was a little surprising. Her smile dropped, and a little of the color faded from her already pale, ethereal cheeks. "Oh. Uh, you mean the Master."

"Yes," said Stanley, but gently, for he saw that the little ghost was just a little on edge.

"He's a spirit of great power," Lil explained, fidgeting slightly. "The Master is the one who opened our grounds up to the lost souls of this world. He is very kind, and very noble."

Clearly Lil was uncomfortable discussing the Ghost Host, and it fit with what Leota had told Stanley about the master of the house. He decided to drop the subject, figuring this was another area of questioning better handled by the lady in the crystal ball, but only after he asked "Where is he now?"

"Oh. He comes and goes," replied Lil. "During the day, he's usually elsewhere. I'm not sure. That's why I'm the one giving you the tour."

"Speaking of," Martin said, "you might want to get on with that as soon as you finish breakfast. I already got a bit of the house layout, but there's a lot more to explore. And anyway, I think it'll help you feel more at home."

Stanley grimaced. "Home?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, we are going to stay here for awhile, aren't we?"

This was met with silence. The skillet that had been floating over the stove moved across to the washbasin and clattered into it.

"I think," said Stanley slowly, "I could stand to get out of the house for a bit, actually. Get some fresh air."

Lil nodded, her smile returning. "Sure! I can take you around the grounds first. Sound good?"

The gears in Stanley's head had started turning again. Like hell he wanted to stay here that long, but he could not deny that his curiosity was on the go. It was a part of him he didn't think he still had, yet there it was: he wanted to dig deeper, get the facts straight, learn what the Gracey Mansion had in store for him. The unceasing whirl of questions had settled in his mind, and he was going to sort through them calmly and rationally.

And maybe, just maybe, discover what had possessed Uncle Yale to give the place to him.

"Yeah," he said. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

The tour, thankfully, was devoid of haunted corridors and ghouls trying to escape from their coffins like last night. Lil led Stanley out of the kitchen, down a short hall and out a door leading to a patio on the side of the house (Martin had remained behind, stating that he was going to conduct a couple interviews). In the daylight, with the morning sun brightening the whitewashed walls of the manor, Stanley found it hard to believe that this was the same property which had scared him so badly the night prior. He took a deep, welcome breath of the damp and earthy air, and felt refreshed.

He noticed, too, that Lil had disappeared – or, rather, was little more than a wispy shadow. Trying to look at her directly, in the sunlight, revealed nothing; he had to screw up his eyes to even catch a shimmer of her. She giggled, noticing his expression.

"Just follow my voice," she said. "It's hard for us to keep a solid form in the sun. That's why ghosts come out at night."

So he did, following her around the house toward the front. He occasionally caught his reflection in the standing puddles left over from the rain, and saw Lil clearly outlined in them as well. Ah. That explained it.

When they reached the main drive that connected the house to the front gate, Stanley caught sight of Richard O'Dell. The groundskeeper was just beyond the fence, putting what looked like an urn on top of one of the empty brick columns. Catching sight of Stanley, his eyes widened and he nearly dropped the urn, a look of shock on his face. Then he smiled nervously and tipped his hat.

Stanley waved back, while whispering sidelong to Lil, "Do you know much about that groundskeeper?"

"Richard?" Lil's voice whispered close to his ear. "Oh, he's a really nice man. Jumpy, but nice. He's been working here for…ten years now, I think."

"Why, though? Do you pay him?" He watched the groundskeeper step down from whatever he was standing on to reach the column and trudge away into Sedgwick Park. "Am _I _supposed to pay him?"

"Huh? Why would you say that?"

Stanley thought of the deed, still on his person, and changed tack. "I mean, what's he doing here?"

"He keeps everything nice out here. We want to make a good impression to any ghosts that arrive." There was a rush of air as she moved invisibly past him. "I think we used to pay him, but now he works here for his own reasons."

Stanley would have probed further, but he felt a small and cold grip on his hand, tugging him gently. "Come on! We've got lost more to see!"

Reluctantly, the mortal followed his spectral guide down the front walk and toward the huge oak at the front of the house. There, Stanley got a closer look at the pet cemetery: a little lawn covered with small monuments to all number of animals. There was a stone cat, surrounded ironically by a number of little stone birds, an upside-down bat, and a poodle. Most of the markers bore amusing epitaphs, and Stanley took the time to read a few of them.

_Old Flybait_, read one with a frog on top. _He croaked_.

Another, with a skunk statue, read _Beloved Lilac: Long on curiosity, short on common scents._

Stanley could not help chucking at these. "Did the owners of these pets have some morbid sense of humor?" he asked, as he finished reading a long, winding marker that outlined the fate of a snake (_whose fatal mistake was frightening the gardener that carried a rake_).

Lil giggled. "The maker of the tombstones was a man who didn't want to take death too seriously, or so I've heard. It's alright, because the Master tends to like a good sense of humor."

Stanley nodded, feeling considerably better until he laid eyes on the tallest tombstone of the bunch. It was a pedestal of a grave, with a statue of a skinny basset hound sitting dutifully on top. The epitaph read: _Buddy – Our Friend 'til the End_.

For some reason, looking at this made Stanley feel sad. It was like the dog was his dog, and he felt a sense of mourning, of longing for an old friend.

A gentle voice, Lil beside him, asked "What's wrong?"

Stanley blinked. He could remember how it felt to lose a pet, but he hadn't thought about that for many years. Not since…

He shook his head, turning away from the dog's grave. "Nothing," he said. "Just distracted, that's all…Let's keep going."

Lil seemed to understand, and continued to lead Stanley through the expansive grounds around this side of the house. He was taken to a statue garden, where dozens of different stone faces peeked out from among the ivy, and then through a forgotten greenhouse, which smelled like a wet compost heap and whose plants were either dead or wildly overgrown. They went to the vine-covered fence, and through the bars Lil pointed out some of the visible parts of Sedgwick Park that had, once upon a time, been a gorgeous place where children played and couples strolled.

"I remember sitting over by the bandstand when I was little," the ghost's voice said wistfully. "The band used to perform every night in the summer. I loved hearing them play." And she imitated the sound of an oompah-pah band, breaking into giggles when Stanley smiled.

Finally she took him to the edge of a steep hill, which seemed to run the length of the property. It ran practically against the back of the house, and was covered with gnarled trees and scraggly bushes. Just at the edge of the hill was a rusting iron fence, and as Stanley stepped through the low gate, he noted that he was entering some sort of family plot, a number of tombstones on the level ground just before hill.

"This is only a small part of the graveyard," Lil explained. "Most of it is on the other side of the hill. That's where most of us are during the day."

"Do ghosts need to rest?" asked Stanley.

"Yep. I'm actually, uh, staying up past my normal bedtime, so to speak." She laughed.

Stanley smiled at this, now looking at the tombstones. It was definitely a family plot, and again the epitaphs carried a singsong quality to their prose: _At peaceful rest lies Brother Claude, planted here beneath this sod_, or: _In memory of our patriarch – dear departed Grandpa Marc._ It definitely led credence to Lil's story that the grave maker had a strange sense of humor.

He was trying his best to not ask so many questions and simply go with the flow for now. She was just a little girl, after all, although a surprisingly mature one. _She's probably had decades to mature anyway_, he thought, morbid as it seemed.

Half-reading the tombstones, his willpower failed, and he asked, "Lil, how did you die?"

There was silence. Immediately he realized what an awful question it had been, and mentally kicked himself. _Nice going, you insensitive jerk! She's just a kid!_

He heard a little sigh. "I drowned. Fell into the river one night. I…can't swim."

Now Stanley felt even worse. He shook his head and sighed himself. "Sorry. I, um, I didn't mean to bring something up. I just…"

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. I don't remember much of it. It's like a bad dream, dying. Eventually you wake up, and the bad part is just a memory."

Stanley grit his teeth and decided to leave it at that. He would relate all of his "sensitive" questions to Leota later.

Meanwhile, he finally took notice of the headstone he was half-staring at. It wasn't so much that this tombstone stood out from the others, but that someone had also laid a fresh-cut red rose atop the marker, dew still clinging to its petals. Stanley read it slowly:

**MASTER GRACEY**

**LAID TO REST**

_NO MOURNING, PLEASE,_

_AT HIS REQUEST_

_**Farewell**_

He read it again, feeling as if one of those cartoon light-bulbs was lighting above his head. There were no dates on the tombstone; just those lines, and the rose. He wondered, with what little knowledge he had, if this was indeed the grave of the "Master" of the house, the Ghost Host that Leota had warned him of.

"Can we explore the rest of the graveyard, beyond the hill?" he inquired.

"Not yet," said Lil. He could still see little of her form but a hazy outline, and her voice was without expression. "We have to wait until nightfall."

"Why's that?"

"Because that's when all the spirits come out to socialize," Lil said. "And they'll definitely want to meet you."

* * *

**(Woo...First and foremost, I want to apologize for not updating this in...well, pretty much a year. It's been a very hectic year, with its ups and downs and such. But hopefully I'll be able to get back on track with this story. I also apologize for the slow pace of things: I am still trying to get a feel for the pacing of this. Now, eight chapters in, I intend to finally get the full forces of the mansion up for a swinging wake!**

**Of course, you'll have to wait for the next chapter for that. X3**

**Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed, and hopefully will continue to read and review even after all this time. I will be going back through soon, fixing spelling errors and those weird changes that FF sometimes makes to the formatting of my older chapters.**

**Until next time, happy haunting!)  
**


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